When my brother came home from war br he carried his left arm in a black sling br but assured us most of it was still there. br Spring was late, the trees forgot to leaf out. br br I stood in a long line waiting for bread. br The woman behind me said it was shameless, br someone as strong as I still home, still intact br while her Michael was burning to death. br br Yes, she could feel the fire, could smell br his pain all the way from Tarawa– br or was it Midway?–and he so young, br younger than I, who was only fourteen, br br taller, more handsome in his white uniform br turning slowly gray the way unprimed wood br grays slowly in the grate when the flames br sputter and die. “I think I’m going mad,” br br she said when I turned to face her. She placed br both hands on my shoulders, kissed each eyelid, br hugged me to her breasts and whispered wetly br in my bad ear words I’d never heard before. br br When I got home my brother ate the bread br carefully one slice at a time until br nothing was left but a blank plate. “Did you see her,” br he asked, “the woman in hell, Michael’s wife?” br br That afternoon I walked the crowded streets br looking for something I couldn’t name, br something familiar, a face or a voice or less, br but not these shards of ash that fell from heaven.