Dry Passage

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We were promised an apocalypse but in our minds it was to be fast and furious. Instant. A flash of fear and then the void.

This came too slowly, like some creature of the night moving carefully through the hallways of a dark house, searching, scratching. Too much anticipation. Too much time to think about it.

My Nan passed peacefully not long before her 60th wedding anniversary. I touch the heart that hangs at my neck to invite in her sweet memories. She survived so much. The big wars, the shortages, the fear. But there was always hope when she was alive. And the rains, they never stopped, not in her lifetime.

I turn my attention back to the succulents at my feet. I began planting them here and there, just as the Portuguese settlers had done on the headlands, a century before me. They are so tolerant, these little plants. And they used to make beautiful flowers in the springtime.

For many years we talked about drought in a detached way, like the way we complained about politics. Always a scandal, always a little less rainfall. But it was never personal. Not then.

I remember the early days, with the water trucks. They’d rattle up the road to fill my neighbors’ wells just after dawn. A distant and seemingly magical source of fresh water. Life, delivered to your doorstep. It was all too comforting, part of the “at least” stories we could tell ourselves when fear would bubble to the surface. I had a spring back then, a tenacious creek in the ravine behind my house. I was independent. Fortunate.

Looking back, those days didn’t last long. Those were the fire times. Each year, the burning would begin a little sooner than we expected. Huge swathes of parched forests were consumed. Friends would arrive, with their children and animals, to wait with us near the ocean until it was safe to go home. Or until the inevitable news arrived, that home was burnt up too. Fire lacks discernment. Many homes were lost along with our woods. Communities changed just like the weather patterns.

My Nan, she never knew those fires, not the wild ones. She remembered the fires caused by the air raids. Thousands of bombs were dropped in those old wars. They carried gas masks to school, in little metal cases. One case for the mask and one for the rationed lunches. I saw those masks in a museum once, distant relics.

Wars come to an end. Money runs out and troops run out and governments admit defeat. Someone wins and then the news feed changes and the people begin to forget. What we are in now is no war. There is no enemy any more.

After the fire times, I suppose there was some fighting, I remember it when I let myself. The communities that were left standing came into conflict with the unhoused. Thousands, maybe it was millions, of people lived in the barren streets of our old cities.

Those were hopeful times, looking back, in spite of the violence. It sounds impossible but remember, there was something worth fighting for. A change, we thought, would come. At first, resources were shared widely. Food was distributed to keep the peace and for some time everyone continued to exist together, despite the chaos. We helped each other. We believed in ourselves.

The real conflict started around the same time as the dust came. By then, everyone was buying water. The rationing had begun but it was sufficient. Consistent. The jobless ones, the ones who couldn’t afford to drink, they were gone now, to other places. I don’t know how else to explain it without feeling the deep hurt. I know what really happened. We are all jobless these days.

I’ll tell you about the dust. It came in waves. Clouds. It created a new kind of darkness. It was like the fire smoke but worse. Much worse. Worse because it meant hunger. Worse because it could not be extinguished.

The valley farms were left barren. Fallow. Dry. After the great fires, the winds intensified. When those gusts came, there was nothing to do but to take shelter. We would sleep in the daytime, curled up with the panting dogs. The less we moved, the less we needed to eat. I remember my dreams from the dust days. We would tell each other our dreams, you see. New stories each day, a mixture of memory and fantasy, our only escape.

I’m staring again at the succulents. I can hardly call them mine anymore. These are the ones that survived. They are in charge of their own fate now, and mine too.

The rest of the garden gave up years ago. Even the old apple trees dropped their limbs. I touch my hearts, placing my hand over the one beating inside of me and then letting my fingers slip onto the locket. My Nan, she didn’t give up. She simply let go.

I feel her smile. I breathe a little and smile back. Then the tears come. I bend down to the earth and let the little drops fall onto the red and green folds of the plant I’ve been staring at. They run through the coating of dust, leaving a clear trail. I follow it with my gaze and then reach down and break off a piece. It’s dry inside, a quiet message.

I raise it to my lips anyway. Up until now, I’ve survived along with these little succulents. Their moisture has provided a life source. “It’s ok, love”, she says, and I’m not sure if it’s Nan or the plant or my own heart speaking. I kiss the broken leaf and let it escape from my fingers.

I lie down, right there in the sun. With eyes closed, I begin to remember my old dreams again. Maybe the end is a flash after all. I breathe out and then suddenly I am free.