Remembering Green

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. In the beginning, the surrounding slopes held their interest nine months out of twelve. At that point the dragons only walked in the valley when drought occurred. Instead they flew. In the three months that comprised Winter, the Reds, Yellows and Blues soared overhead, swooping and singing in synchronicity. Their performances shocked even the most cynical among us. They performed for each other, though we enjoyed the shows immensely. When they achieved their goal, they returned to the mountains with their new mate or mates.

During the Winter, only the young Greens and Purples ventured down into the canyons and valley below. Worry was minimal. Their weaker wings created an imbalance in their posture that prevented them from being able to perform at the high altitudes, so they were reduced to ground level to find their mates. This same imbalance rendered them nearly harmless to humans. The fire they spat burned the roof of their mouths like boiling water, so they used it only as a last resort. They performed just as boldly as the other colors, singing loudly and poorly to attract a lover. The Green and Purple songs were more about laughter than talent, and we enjoyed these as well.

Now, I watch the sun rise and set through my kitchen window for most of the year, and I am beginning to forget what Green looks like. The arid heat and barren landscape serve as bleak reminders of the trees that used to be here. The grass, moss and fungi are also gone now. Some believe the Greens themselves will soon be extinct. Through my window, I soak in desolation, changed only by the angle of the sun and its reflection cast against the mountains. The sand and rocks block out nearly all memories of Green: Green that painted the landscape and brought laughter into every household; Green that glowed brightly in the night and sang to our hearts; Green that brought joy and unity; Green that was slaughtered when their resistance to change became too inconvenient.

Last Winter, I was in a pub listening to some horrific karaoke, one of the only things that still brings tears of laughter to a room.

“Whose idea was this?” the man next to me asked. My stomach dropped. I begged the universe to let him be talking about the singing. Because, really, who thought it would be a good idea to turn this into a karaoke bar?

The woman next to him shrugged and cheered on the performer.

“I don’t know, but I like her. I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time.” The performer dropped the mic and it nearly bounced off the edge of the stage. The audience roared as she picked it up and continued singing Billy Joel’s “My Life.”

“I meant the Harvest,” he hissed, “as in the real reason why we are listening to karaoke instead of watching a show at a real bar.”

My guts churned around inside of me. I backed away. Surely he could remember. His cheeks were just as sunken as mine. Or was he not guilty of the same exploitation perpetrated by the others our age? Had he not participated in The Harvest? My questions stung like Red. I left the bar.

As I sit here now getting sucked into the past, my Green lies beside me snoring softly. Her dull scales look nearly brown after decades of life inside. Next to her, our dull aloe plant slumps, equally dissatisfied. Both are out of sight of the window, safely hidden from any snooping neighbors who might call the council for their removal.

It has been nearly 200 years since the first harvest, and although age has wreaked havoc on my body like an unwelcome guest, I can still remember every detail. How could we have been so naive? I cannot forget it no matter how hard I try. It began with one egg.