That was the summer when all the bees died, and the water turned yellow. I thought about you that summer. I am spending quite a bit of time alone, with both the girls at school all day, and Tim and I never talked much after you went away. When I remember you we are in a garden, and the bees are buzzing. Karen came to me one day from the backyard to show me handfuls of little lifeless bees, soft as her breath, brittle as her bones. Even her pockets were full of them. They spilled out onto the floor, which we recently had redone in terracotta tiles. She lined a glass bowl with moss and kept them as pets, until Nancy ate one and I just had to throw them away. Then when the water turned yellow overnight and the radio and the internet said everything was fine, we are dealing with it, we are trained in emergency preparedness, Nancy got a strange growth behind her ear and Tim complained that there was a bitter taste in his mouth, like burnt coffee. So we started sleeping in the basement because it seemed safer, and we turned on the radio and on the radio it said that someone had reported there was another earth, another planet, and it seemed that on this other earth there was water. And I looked at our water, and the tap dripped yellow and then stopped. And I thought of this empty planet, somewhere, elsewhere, and I find myself more and more thinking of it, and of you there, drinking that water, looking into the light of another sun.