I just said to Wil, “what kind of world is it, where every day I can find some new loss to mourn, to write about?”
And he answered, “A dying world.”
I painted the small painting of the rhino above in my remembering notebook, which will be filled with the ones I don’t want to forget, and carried close to my body in the hope that my cells will soak up some of theirs.
I’ll carry these pages hidden in my hip pocket,
In the hope that my body can make sense of what my mind cannot.
I don’t really know what to say about a loss like this.
The Western Black Rhino was a mammal, same as humans; a mammal same as me, with milky breasts for feeding babies.
The western black rhinos were mamas like me.
I’m sure they loved the sweet scent of their little ones, and the softness of their skin, that they whispered I love you’s to their sleeping babies, and gave them millions of kisses, in their own rhino way.
Forget it, writing about this is feeling cumbersome, I feel agitated, can feel the anger swelling in me like heat, my skin is crawling, I can’t stop fidgeting.
I can’t make this pretty or poetic.
They’re gone. Because of us. Because their horns were gobbled up as medicine, and their skins were prized for handbags.
It’s just so fucked up, we’ve fucked it up.
I have nothing to say.
Thank you for listening,