Two beds are empty. My sisters know the smell of damp streets, car seats, pinner joints, know that while our parents sleep, the world keeps on writhing. Our parents: Who would scorn two figures in their single beds, flickering sleep, two dogs amassed upon the mother’s legs? How could history be kinder? We cannot help them here. A moment, a landscape: drift of oleander, bottlebrush suspended above their worries. See? My sisters have crawled back through the window.