It is spring. Still cool in the mornings. Warm days.
She sits in a swing, in a never completed park.
No grass. No paved tracks. No transplanted trees.
Just the little playground.
She thinks she is 17 now. Her birthday is in mid-March.
It might be April by now, though she doesn’t know for certain.
The war came. The fires came. The silence came.
She sits in a swing, and waits for him.
The wind was sewn, and the whirlwinds came a’reaping.
She has been alone for a year. She is always tired. Often hungry.
Her dreams are filled with terrors and wonders.
She wonders if she is a prophet for the remnant.
She knows he is following close behind. Is a wary? Is he waiting?
The silence that came after the fires has been the worst. No human voices.
All the batteries are dead. No way to hear music even.
She longs to speak, and to hear, and to touch.
She sits in the swing, waiting. She remembers her childhood.
She was swaddled and innocent, while the world was burning.
She knew not what was coming, but it came, and it took her too.
She remembered trying to swing as he as she could, laughing.
The boy, has been following her, and she hears him, out of sight.
She has much to fear from an unknown male, but she is lonely.
He is no older than she. Most likely just as tired, and hungry, and lonely.
Adam and Eve in Gehenna instead of Eden.
She looks up. There he is. They lock eyes. She smiles.
He walks to her, unsure, as if he’s afraid of spooking her.
She stays in the swing, and watches him, heart racing.
Will he kiss her cheek, or slit her throat? Is he a friend?
He goes to the swing beside her, and sits down.
It is spring. The morning is cool. Warm days.
The silence is perhaps broken now, voices speaking.
Maybe it’s a crack in all this death, life coming back.