They say all stories start poetically. That the poetic opening line should inform the reader that the story ahead will be one of danger, mystery, excitement, romance, and perhaps a touch of sorrow. But this is not the beginning.
This is the end.
Not the end of all things nor the end of the lives thus far here told.
Because all good stories do not end.
Most books are judged by their opening lines. Those lines significant for how they engage a generation with only a few words. Those few words that tell stories for themselves.
The sad stories that tell of "baby shoes, never worn" or "died at twenty-five, buried at seventy". The happy tales that say "and they loved" or "and so they lived after the manner of happiness". And the contemplative endings of "so they desired it to be" and "they rode off into the sunset".
But this is not one of those stories.
For a tale of this sort it needs s better ending than a few words. Perhaps a paragraph or two will do. And where those are insufficient, well, it resides with the reader to write the ending they wish to see.
For, despite their hopes, the second child of John and Anna Bates was not a girl. Nor was the third. But when Doctor Clarkson showed them the scan of the fourth child they finally got their wish.
Not that they would trade their three rambunctious boys for the world. Jack, who worked alongside his mother in The Rock until he entered the Naval Academy and returned to Plutonium as the captain of his own ship. Or Matthew, who followed in the footsteps of his namesake and gave his education to the law before working to fight for the forgotten and the mistreated. Or even Robert, who took up his father's pen and traveled the universe over to tell others about the wonders there.
But little Mary, their pride and joy, always held a special place in their hearts. She was the only one to live only in the potential and never in the reality. She was the reason Anna eventually turned over ownership of The Rock to William and Daisy. The reason John wrote poetry and philosophical work instead of the harsh realities of war and poverty.
She was the child for whom authors pen the words, "baby shoes, never used."
Life continued after her, just as it did before her, but their lives were forever changed. For a time Anna and John could not bear to speak without tears. And then, for a time, they could not speak at all. But when they did speak they spoke of her dreams. They wrote out their hopes for her, their dreams for her, and their wishes. When they finished they bound them together and sold them.
Little Mary lived on for them in the form of a child they imagined would fit alongside her three elder brothers. A child they loved as much as any other and perhaps a bit more for all she could have been but never had the chance to be. For every parent has their favorite.
On the little outpost of Plutonium they grew together. Bore children together. Buried one child together. And, eventually, grew old together. One day they will be no more than their memories… to live on for a hundred years more. For that is all we are, the steam that powers the universe. It runs not on steam or coal or nuclear fission but on the people we power it for.
The people who forge themselves of the elements and carve a life out of the unforgiving blackness. Who triumph together, survive together, and love together. The people who build on the rock with naught but steam.
This is how they lived.
