I buried my baby today. Perfect with her ten, delicate fingers and ten, tiny toes. Beautiful with her downy, black hair covering her round, little head. If only I could have seen life in her blue eyes or heard a shriek burst from her lungs. Here in the colony, there is only one doctor for every settlement. They have the technology to bring people to Mars, but not enough to save one baby born prematurely.
The sun set an hour ago, shrouding our small biosphere in an uneasy silence that thickens with the darkness. I insisted that Mansi be buried in our biosphere. Already, the wild flowers on her grave are wilting. Beyond the biosphere, the night is calm, chilly. The scent of dust and dry heat presses up from the ground as the sand whispers beneath my feet. It is the only sound I can make.
Kneeling at the grave, I pluck out pottery-like shards from the mound of red dirt covering my baby, Mansi. The smooth, deep ochre shards, some as large as my palm, are everywhere on Mars. I scatter them away from the grave. They clatter against each other, hollow and restless, like Mansi's spirit.
Questions tear at me as I wrap my arms around my body, my abdomen still swollen and thick. Why ... why my baby, my first child? Instead of feeling the link that once joined Mansi to me, there is only emptiness and aching. I want to scream at the stars that have risen in the Martian sky and chase them away. My daughter has joined Those Gone Before and I hate that most of all. They are forgotten and now, she will be, too. Just a name in a registry and a sad headstone showing not even one day of life.
"Chasovi!"
Hanu's voice startles me. His hurried footsteps echo through the biosphere, fading into the waves of red dust undulating across the dark, cold desert. I hate the cold beyond our biosphere. It feels so close tonight.
He calls for me again, his voice raspy and desperate. He races across the desert toward me.
"Chasovi, please," he says, out of breath. His strong hands grip my arms as he slides down beside me. "Dr. Jeffries says you need to stay in bed. Please, come back inside."
"Soon," I say, "when I know her spirit is settled."
He slips his arm around my shoulders, but I retreat from his touch. His tanned, thin face is haggard and his watery dark eyes are deeply circled. His usually neatly combed walnut hair, tied at his shoulders swings free. This loss has aged him. He has always been strong and graceful like the sandstone mesas of the Acoma pueblo we left behind, but tonight, I see such pain in his eyes. It is something I've never before seen in him.
He studies the grave for a moment. Finally, tears slip down his cheeks and through quivering lips, he sings an Acoma prayer of peace to our daughter. He reaches for me again and this time, I go to him, putting my voice to his.
Sharp pain slices through my abdomen and I cry out, everything blurring. Hanu's voice fades from my ears then erupts in shouting. Someone leans over me and I force my eyes open.
"Chasovi, do you hear me?" Hanu cries, wiping away tears. "Chasovi, please!"
I nod.
)
