All that is left

They lay still on the soft earth, hands clasped as they gazed at the passing clouds. This evening was quieter than usual, the wind had died down and sun glinted gold in patches of unexpectedly blue sky. Perhaps the air was clearing; perhaps this was the break they had been desperately hoping for.

The past few months had been unbearable, the weather, always unpredictable, had taken a vengeful turn. First the sun had baked the earth, drying out the new spring growth and parching the soil until it cracked. Then a scorching wind had brought with it an endless storm of dust, blotting the sun from the sky and choking anyone who dared to venture outside. They had seen dust storm before, not in their youth of course, but it seemed they came every year now to strip away the life from the once green rolling hills.

They had lived their whole lives in this place, bearing witness over the years as time slowly gnawed away at the edges of everything they knew. They had lived in a time of wonder, of technological omnipotence, with a world of knowledge at their fingertips. They had lived to see marvels that would astound all those that had lived before them, lived in a world of plenty, in a world where there was more than enough. They had lived to see all this slip away, they watched un-acting and powerless to stop the cascading failure of everything they knew. Their old lives, a bright world full life, had been slowly eroded by an unstoppable march of stubbornness, of short-sighted selfishness.

The changes had been almost unnoticeable at first, each passing year had brought with it new hardships, freedoms lost, and ever greater challenges. Their former lives of unacknowledged riches and freedoms had been slowly reduced, first to a level of necessity and then to the point that even necessity could not be relied upon. The old normal was replaced time and again with a new, inferior existence; diluting their reality one drop at a time until they could barely remember the taste of the life once lived.

They had lived full of love. Love for one another, for family, neighbours, and friends. When hardship first arrived this strengthened their bonds, they rose to the challenge, overcame great adversity and prospered. But when you are battling the world itself, you are battling your very existence, the fabric you are made of.

Now they are all that is left.

Despite it all, through the destitution, they had kept only one luxury, one trinket of the old world; a memory worn around the neck, a small heart-shaped locket. Usually kept hidden beneath the fold of the thread worn shirt, the locket glinted in the dying evening light. It had been the first gift between them, exchanged in another world, a world which had been careering towards its own demise, fuelled by its own self-absorbed denial. This gift, forged from precious metals and sentimental meaning is now without value.

They lay horrifyingly still on the soft earth, a testament to all that has been lost. Their empty eye sockets gaze unseeingly as the sun slowly set. The locket dangles loosely to one side, its meaning lost, its significance forgotten. Their unseeing gaze missed the majesty of the moment.

The wind, soft and warm whistled gently through their sun bleached bones. From the sparse clouds came a gentle patter of rain, finally bringing a cool relief to the endless dryness. Perhaps it will all work out; things might get better from here. Perhaps it will all work out in the end.