Gone Fishing

Middle of the workday, forced to confront the millennium. To transform data—1s and 0s—into a DNA sequence—ATGC—and save as a dehydrated dust. Resting on a shelf for 500 years, 1,000 years. Fast-forward: who’s there? To place a capsule on the shelf is to say, Yes, I believe you will survive. It begs more questions than answers. When you cast a rod, you don’t question whether there will be fish.

No. 110

A.A.A. - Epilogue

Under his bed, W. kept four shotguns. “Get rid of them,” his wife said upon finding them. “I don’t want them in here.” 

That was all he left—not money, nor land, artwork, and bonds. Four shotguns, one for each grandson. They sent around the photo: the Winchester 190 .22 in its original box; the Remington .35; the 1960’s Mossberg 12-gauge; and the one from his father, the 1940’s Mossberg .22. 

The grandsons divvied them up, planning the shipments to Illinois and California. In the back closet were two BB guns that nobody wanted and were dumped in the trash with his files, clothes, pills, and shoes. 

___

The wind came through the swamp and shifted the metal cans perched along the back fence. He held the gun against his shoulder. His cousin cocked it for him; at five his grip was not strong. Looking down the barrel, his hands shook as he maneuvered the sight to the can. “Aim above it,” the cousin said. “It shoots low.” Pull the trigger, the can went flying into the swamp. They cheered, then broke glass bottles with more shots, even taking aim at squirrels clambering up trees to safety. Inside, his great-grandmother poured whole milk into coffee mugs for them. The summer sun felt faded coming through the thick curtains and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. That was what he remembered: the thickness of the air and milk, and the heaviness of the gun.

No. 050

Cultivation

Still the plants need water. Early spring hits Los Angeles and dries out the soil. Through winter: dormancy; then with the heat the promise of renewed growth. I’d been neglecting them, and could see in the slight browning leaves signs of parchedness.

Some for five, six years I’ve cared. They argue plants have no feelings, but tending them I’ve found a common language with mine. I can intuit when they need light, when they need water, when something is wrong. I know, too, that the vibrations in the room, my emotional register, the music I play, the mood of the dog, all the things that build the energy of life impact them too.

I’d like to own property. I’d like to plant a tree. I’d like to watch it grow. I’d like to lie on my death bed and look out at the tree ten, twenty, thirty feet in the air and know that it was there because of me, and that I sustained it, and that after my passing it continued. There’s a sense of the future in planting a tree. I’d like to cultivate the future.

Around the world moments of despair send a numbing shockwave and seem to pause time. History bends and suddenly there is a before and there is an after. And still the plants need water.

No. 023