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06. The Planting

Rosalyn woke. The ache in her knees traveled up into her hips, her back, her chest, her fingers. It was a constant companion. When she was younger, the pain had meant something. It followed a hard day’s work, an effort of which she could be proud. She reveled in the soreness, knowing it was well earned. With great care she would limp around the house, showing just enough discomfort to make everyone aware, but not enough to make it seem like she minded. In the early days the pain was a visitor — it had long since moved in.

In the kitchen, Rosalyn warmed her stove. The device fit neatly on the counter. She pushed twigs, paper, and wood scraps through a small opening in the ceramic shell and swung the cover into place. The morning sun shone lightly. It was a different sun than she had seen on Earth. The physical object was of course the same, but as a realized experience it was something altogether different. Rosalyn had been to the Rocky Mountains, on Earth. There too, the sun was something strange. Fierce and unforgiving, so unlike the gentle sun of the north. The sun that now glowed on the clean surfaces of her home was more gentle still.

From a drawer beneath the counter, Rosalyn lifted a small box. The box was filled with small packets, neatly labeled. Arugula, spinach, carrots, beets, radishes. She had brought them from Earth but didn’t know if they would grow. It didn’t matter. Food was plentiful, the planting: a ritual. Spring was showing in the leaves and buds of the short trees that surrounded her house for miles. The seasons still lived here — on Earth, they were dying. The seasons on Mars were young and fresh, newly sprung from the dry red soil. They had been given a second chance.

Rosalyn put water on the stove and loose tea into a mug. She looked out the window.

The communities of Better Past formed a large ring. On the outside of the ring, residents had access to the modern world. A series of retail establishments appropriate to each time period formed a barrier between the outside and the in, discretely providing anachronistic goods and services without disrupting the facade. The general store, the department store, and the shopping mall allowed the retirees to enjoy their trip down memory lane without forgoing the advances of civilization.

Rosalyn lived on the inside of the ring — a wilderness of trees and brush, unmaintained and unmolested. For most residents, it was pleasant scenery. For a few, it was home. The small houses in the center were spread far and wide. Unlike the houses on the ring, those in the center were not built for a specific time period. They were built to work and not need repair, to provide the basics and nothing more. Current technologies were used where appropriate, but they kept to the background.

Though she lived at Better Past, Rosalyn avoided nostalgia. The past was a story already told, and she did not wish to hear it again. She used the pulsing cycles of ritual to keep her world ever-growing. She looked to the past to keep her pointed in the direction of her future. To live in the past was a stagnation, an illusion of peace that led to ferment and rot.

The kettle whistled sharply. Rosalyn filled her mug and held it in both hands, inhaling the steam. With the mug in one hand and the box in another, she stepped outside.

Past Rosalyn’s door was a bare patch of soil, freshly turned and watered. She had done the work yesterday, her first day here. Soil, manure, and tools had been waiting at the house per her instructions. Before bringing her luggage inside, she had taken a spade to the light red topsoil. She had turned it and broken it, cut open bags and mixed in the dark soil from Earth.

Now she walked down the edge with packets in one hand. She poked a finger into the wet earth and placed a seed, repeating every few inches. Each seed was carefully hidden and left to wait. A new row for each plant, not labeled but committed to memory. When Rosalyn finished, she looked at her fingers. Fine dirt crumbs littered her skin and hid under her fingernail. Full of life that tore down as well as it nurtured, birth from death, growth from decay.

Rosalyn finished her tea and spread the leaves across the garden.

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