IVY WRITES
When I am gone, I will leave a letter. Not with ink and paper, but with wet soil and fungi. My memory will live on, even after all those who love me have perished, in the trees that grow and feed off of the dirt that cushions my bones. After all mankind has eaten himself, all of his failures and wars will be buried beneath the worm that feeds the finch that feeds the hawk.
When we are all gone, when we have failed to colonize Mars and once the Sun has burned us up, the wildflowers will stretch their petals freely and feed off of the soil rich with water that our God is no longer around to steal. When our temporary solutions to the problems we created have all proven themselves to be just as they are, temporary, the Mother’s solution will overtake us. Her veins will syphon our blood and our souls to replenish her own body and mind. Because we were the infection, our punishment is to be the remedy.
My note to the world will not be in the people that carry on my legacy, or in the words that I type into our machines, but in the eternity of the wildflowers. Pink and yellow and white, beauty in the wake of death. My note to the world is not an apology; she does not need my sympathy. My note to the world is my body that breaks apart without feeling, to nourish like a mother's naïve baby prairie dog, whose flesh feeds his birther.
My note to the world will not lie dead in atom's craters or in NASA’s space stations. My note to the world will lie in what lives on after the great humbling.