January 10th, 2097,
Dear Diary,
Another treacherously hot day here in Burlington,
Vermont. I ventured outside in spite of
the heat because I was hungry and our supply of dried crickets and
thimbleberries was getting low. Besides,
I hadn’t spent a lot of time in the western part of our domain and thought I
might find some others who survived the great fire and could have resources to
share. Plus, the mosquitos would
probably be out, and I could perhaps cobble a quick protein snack on the road
to my destination, whatever that was. If
not, surely there would be a few bark beetles hiding somewhere that if I had
the strength, I could extract from some of the nearby dying trees.
I found myself on a
path surrounded by what looked like it might once have been a series of wooden
structures, now just foundations, really with a few remnants strewn about from some
kind of former mini village that had long been abandoned: part of a red wig, a
torn piece of paper displaying what
looked some kind of sheet music for the piano before they were all destroyed. I
could just make out the title “Feed Me, Seymour” at the top, a can of paint and
a metal saw with an old electric cord. I
put the saw in my bag. There might not
be any electricity, but who knew when the blade might come in handy for
something.
I continued down the
path, hot wind blowing through the one of two tattered t shirts I had left, carrying with it rocky dust from the road that hit my skin and
made it itch.
100 feet ahead,
something caught my eye.
It was an old and
long rectangular cabin, but without a roof and only part of the walls intact.
At the front, although bent and upside down, was a plaque somehow still hanging
from a half bunt beam.: Beehive, it
read, and was accompanied by a poorly
drawn picture of a beehive – one bee flying to its side. I had read about bees and seen photos of them
in a book my grandmother had decades earlier, but had never actually seen one,
maybe once or twice in my childhood,, but they had been ambling slowly on a
branch and not buzzing about with the purpose
and drive the book had spoken about.
Had this been a
large holding space for these long-gone creatures? I stepped further into the area and noted a
rusty box spring to the left and part of a mattress to the right. Something shiny stuck in the box spring made
me take a second glance. A brown,
white and blue wrapper. There were
letters on it that were spelled “Snick”, but the rest seemed to be torn off.
Further down there was
an area that looked like it had been a porch overlooking a series of now blackened forests and a puddle of water that had once been what I think I hear was Lake
Champlain. The railing was just barely
intact but I could see carved "BLC forever." I stood there looking down at
what I imagined had once been a beautiful view.
Who had been there? What were
they doing? Something about it felt familiar.
The scent? The uneven floor
boards? The faded graffiti and
scribblings on the wall: Beehive 87 – It's heaven. I read. Becky is COOL. Jenny and Greg Forever encircled by a sloppy fading heart.
As I looked around, I could make out clues of
life once present there, a cigarette butt filter in a corner; a grey plastic
hairbrush, missing ¾ of its bristles, part of a lipstick top. I imagined girls here, smoking on the porch,
singing along into their hairbrush microphones
to songs on the radio, experimenting with how magenta gloss made them look
just a little bit more sophisticated. I
hadn’t seen any of these items in many
years. Mostly they just didn’t exist anymore, but for a moment I could dream about them and
picture a life when they did.
It was time to
go. There wasn’t any food there,
and I only had so much energy for
wandering without purpose. I turned to
leave and walked slowly towards the front of the cabin. I couldn’t help noticing on one wall on the
right, written in bright red indelible marker, the kind you use when you want
to be remembered: “Mary was here”.
