This Was Our Home

“What did you say?”

“I said I’m going.”

“Cindy, it isn’t safe out there. This isn’t up for debate.”

"I said I'm going."

I rush into my worn Nikes, tying the laces hurriedly.

Bunny ears, bunny ears, playing by a tree. Criss-crossed the tree, trying to catch me. Bunny ears, bunny ears, jumped into the hole, popped out the other side beautiful and bold.

I duck out quickly, knowing if I don't leave, I'll miss my oppurtunity.

What a joke. It isn't safe? It's never been safe.

Inside he thinks he can protect me. I suppose that's what big brothers are expected to do, after they make your early childhood as difficult as possible of course.

Sharp pain from the bridge of my nose interrupts my thoughts as the chemical fumes irritate my nostrils. My eyelids flicker shut to defend themselves against the accusing wind. Pressing a rag against my mask, I keep my head down. As my feet shuffle across the gravel, I force my eyes apart, cautiously letting them wander over the path. Outside I am more vulnerable, but I refuse to go back.

I look over at the wilted moss, he glances back at me with his sympathetic, sad smile. Together we grow from the cracks of this wasteland.

Lightning dances across the sky as another storm of danger approaches. The great sky's beauty isn't lost on me despite the terror it makes me feel. Its smoky rythm is taunting, threatening me with every flash and thunder. A gust of wind propells me forward, pushing me onto the street, throwing my small frame off centre.

If I plan to make it in time, I will need to hurry. I shift gears nervously and increase my pace.

This neighbourhood was the last 'safe' refuge. Again that word 'safe', what a fraudulunt notion, it should be a crime to claim such a thing. We haven't been 'safe' (protected from harm and/or danger) for a long time. We've tried to coexist with the great storm that ravages the earth for over a decade now. Our crops are almost, completely, depleted. Life expectancy dropped to 27 last year, which makes me middle-aged. And for those unfortunate enough to be bearing a child, the liklehood of the mother and infant survivng is similar to the likelihood of a clear sky - like the odds of winning a lottery back in the day. In the interest of time, funeral preparations now coencide with the due date.

The greedier and needier we become the more we stole. The more we stole, the more we lost.

Aware of my mortality, depressing waves of sorrow blur my vision. Already fragile with hunger, my heart throbs. I know I am close now, I muster up the strength to keep going. Slowing down, no longer able to take deep breaths, I stumble through the cemetery gate. Now unable to see, I stumble blindly through the entry and hunch over. I brace myself as an acidic stream of mucus rises. I try to gulp it down. Sobbing, I squint towards the toasting treetops. The forest fuel has sparked, ignited by the unrelenting sheets of lightning.

We are no longer welcome here, it's our fault.

We were told. She warned us of the consequences long before. We were spoiled. We ignored her when the ice caps were melting, too busy licking our icy poles. We used her tears for swimming pools. We turned over her rarest, beauties for our profit, borrowed without returning, and harvested her precious organs for currency.

Our rebellion caused her torturous amounts of grief and pain. When she warned us she was about to break, we kept going. We needed more from her so with her blood, we painted. With her limbs, we built and fortified our future. We were mesmerised by the illusion of fortune and fame. We neglected our mother and foolishly revelled in our glory, a glory formed at her expense. We had our moment in the spotlight.

But the show is over, the curtains are closed.

I finally reach her. Feeling truly safe, at last, I huddle beside her headstone. She protects me at this moment.

“I’m sorry Mum, there’s no flowers left to bring you.’’