Their ships were a cloud in the sky one morning when I was sixteen. We ran from our huts mostly naked, our mouths agape. The ships began to land; some distant, some close. I don’t know how we knew they were men and not something else. Maybe the ships just looked like something men would build, like the ones our ancestors had come to this planet on.
Grandfather put on his best leathers and patiently combed his hair while they landed. I remembered thinking it vaguely ridiculous somehow, like a child trying to impress her parent with an awkward twirl.