I stopped counting the days of this project because, really, who the fuck cares? We have lifetimes of grief ahead of us, enough loss to fill a million lonely years.
This grief does not stop. It does not fade, or go away. It does not rest, or quiet, or lay down like a sweet old dog, tired at the end of the day.
There is no end to this, to the pain of watching the systematic and deliberate destruction of our own living and beautiful planet.
We bear witness to a global ecocide.
The milkweed stands tall in the yard, waiting for the butterflies that may or may not arrive.
The clover stands untouched in the field, the bees few and far between.
We went for a streamside wander with my dad today, who at 70, remembers a boyhood filled with catching fish and frying them for dinner, scooping up frogs and finding snakes. While my own small son’s blue net with the bamboo handle hangs mostly empty, the occasional crayfish or salamander special enough to marvel about.
To be honest, most days writing feels futile. How could I have been naive enough to think that a year of mourning would be enough? To believe that grief could be treated like a project, with an end and a beginning, with some kind of order that makes sense? How could I have hoped that this hollow pain would leave? Why would I even want it to?
A year is not enough. 10 years, a hundred, a million, forever. You could cry an ocean of tears and there would still be more to give.
I feel lost these days. Like something has been stripped from me, but I’m not sure what it is. Like I’m trying to hold onto something that just keeps slipping away.
It’s hot now, and the blazing summer sun soaks into my black clothing, uncomfortable.
But it reminds me.
As if it is even possible to forget.
I stopped counting the days of this project because
we have lifetimes of grief
ahead of us.
Thank you for listening,