The ground shook as another tank went by.

And she still danced barefoot in the kitchen to the American songs on the phonograph, the records smuggled in years ago before they sealed the border. There was the smell of caraway bread in the oven, coffee going cold on the stove. The metal pots hung over the hearth began to shake.

Outside her younger brother dribbled left on the packed earth court, pulled up and shot on the goal nailed to the dying oak tree. And when they went to the city, the concrete courts full of young boys dressed in imported clothes and rockandroll sneers, he was so much like them, teeth bared, face sweating, growling and pushing even with the bigger ones until someone would win or a fight would start. The ball went in and he went to get it back before it rolled down the driveway.

The tank passed on alone, towards the capitol, its diesel engine still audible over the wind and birds, and somewhat the music too. And there was— surely it wasn’t peace.

Her feet still moving, she closed her eyes and made fists and did not think of peace. She remembered throwing stones at soldiers, the blood on her puma t-shirt and her face after the barricade. How things change. How they never do.