The Unending Day

There used to be a day when there were 86,400 seconds in a day. Those days are gone now. The sun used to appear over the horizon in something called a "morning." Afterwards, it would dance across the sky for a "long time" before disappearing over the horizon. If anyone was lucky enough to catch the sun in its rising or setting, the sky would be filled with every color you could imagine. At least, that is what the original survivors say.

Technically, I'm an original survivor. So was my grandma. Was. To most, being an "original survivor" is a badge of honor. For the survivors themselves, it is a reminder of how they escaped the end of the world only to live in the skeleton of what used to be society. Grandma used to say that being called a "survivor" was ironic, because nobody really makes it out alive in the end. She might be right; she died today.

Of course, nobody ever lives to see "tomorrow." We're always one minute til sunset - always on the verge of darkness. That's why the founders call us "Haven 19:47". Apparently that's when the Earth finally came to a stop. The name was supposed to keep us going.

But today is Grandma's midnight procession. It's where her body is lowered into the ground while the graveman says a few words. I've always secretly hoped that time would sit still like the sun does. That, maybe through the days coming to and end, we would stop aging as well. But every body added to the graveyard crushed that reality.

Grandma was the one that found me in the rubble. As the world decelerated, earthquakes became more common and more violent. Rumors say that when the Earth's rotation stopped, the whole world shook, toppling mountains, splitting continents, and ravishing anything and everything made by humans. It's not something I can clearly recall, but I can count a dozen scars on my body to account for the event. You could say that we were lucky to be living in what was once the flat, grassy plains of North America, but I'm still trying to figure if we really are or not.

Unlike me, my parents didn't make it. "You're lucky to be alive," Grandpa always used to say. "We didn't think any of you woulda been left. There was nothing left of that ol' brick house when we got there." He also died today, but a very long time ago. I don't know how many years old I was when that happened - we stopped trying to count the days and years - but I can clearly recall the daily struggle of hauling firewood back to our makeshift house to keep us warm at night. After he died, I was the man of the house. I had to take care of the leaky ceilings, drafty windows, and do all the heavy hauling. It was a responsibility I wasn't prepared for.

Grandma was tough as nails. She was never worried or anxious. For every problem there was a solution, and she always wanted to find it. She was full of positivity and courage. It was Grandma that raised me and almost entirely on her own. During sleepless times, she would share stories about how birds sang in the morning or how little critters crawled all over the land in the daytime, and I would fantasize about the idea of a "day" until I fell asleep. She was the one that taught me how to dance; when I was sad, she would always take my hands and lead me in a foolish little dance by the fireplace. In her kindheartedness, she nursed the ill back to health - or at least comforted them until their passing. She always told me, "Don't take any day for granted, because you never know when it's your last one."

Tears well up in my eyes as I pry open a heart-shaped locket with a faded black-and-white photograph of her inside of it. She was the greatest. I miss her.

I roll the locket between my fingers as the graveman recites the Midnight Song.

"Life has passed, their day is gone -

Unto tomorrow, there she may go.

Midnight comes, our eyes must rest -

For dawn brings dancing and feasts.

Until then, we'll hold our heads -

And wait until tomorrow."

I kept my face towards the ground as he spoke - I was too ashamed of my tears to look anyone in the eyes. Tears are weakness, and weakness leads to death. Life might not be worth living, but nor is death worth dying for.

The graveman petitioned to the small assembly gathered around the grave, "Would the remaining family be the first to bury their dead?"

I shuffled forward from from the front and shoveled the first scoop of dirt onto a gray, lifeless body that once belonged to my grandmother. I didn't have the strength to look at her directly. The pain of this loss was unbearable. I've lived every day of my life with a cup full of grief. Another drop and the cup would spill over. And yet, the cruel sun still hangs over the horizon as though it is waiting for something more worthy to move for. If not this, then what?

Moments later, the midnight ceremony is over, and Grandma is buried under three feet of soil. She gets no tombstone - future generations will have nothing to remember anything by. The founders say it is better that way. "The sooner we forget the past, the sooner we can make a brighter future for ourselves." I don't buy it.

The founders govern Haven 19:47. They claim to be just like everyone else - simply a "friendly neighbor" - but somehow they procured themselves to possess the finest makeshift homes in the entire Haven. They pride themselves on being the governance of the Haven while everyone else farms potatoes. It was their idea to set a perimeter fence around the Haven. They claim that traveling too close to the sun will expose you to dangerous radiation from the sun, and on the contrary moving too far away will leave you stranded in a tundra. To my knowledge, nobody has ever tried to test that theory - we do well enough to keep ourselves fed on a daily basis.

One of the founders approaches me and pats my shoulder. She's a tall, older woman with frizzy gray hair. "Your grandmother was a spectacular woman. She will be greatly missed." She breaks away before continuing, "I know this loss is tough for you. It is tough for us all. Why don't you go home and rest for a time?" Her lips curl into a tiny smile before turning away.

The founders are good at pretending to care. I've never seen a founder lift a shovel or move a pile of dirt. They've never dug through rubble to scavenge what is left from the Old World so that we can reuse it in the broken one. All I ever see them do is stand over our shoulders and remind us that we aren't doing our jobs correctly. I'm not sure who put them in charge, but it wasn't us.

I follow the broken path that leads to my home. It is littered with debris, random patches of life that can find enough light to make that spot its home, and tiny insects that feed off of whatever they can find. And I rested at home for a time. My face was swollen with tears I refused to release. I only felt anger - I'm not sure at who, but in my heart I blamed the founders.

I'm not sure if I really fell asleep. I felt trapped. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her voice. I can still hear her gently whisper, "Don't take a single day of your life for granted."

It was always by the fireplace where she spoke those words. I sat by it quietly, listening to the fire crackle and pop. I fidget with the heart-shaped locket. I roll it between my fingers and pop it open before snapping it shut over and over. She might be right - she was about a lot of things. She also used to say that "tomorrow might never come, but surely I can live for today, because today is all I might have left."

In a quiet rebellion, I tossed that locket in the fire. And I think a part of me broke. I didn't want a tomorrow or a today. I just want my Grandma back.