I don’t know why I’m alive, whether I’m a genetic freak or a miracle kept to watch over this vast asteroid graveyard. If I’m supposed to tend to this field, or say prayers over it, I don’t do it. If I had visitors I wouldn’t know what to tell them.
Should a catalogue of my life include everything I once had, but lost? I hope not. It’s much better to do away with everything that’s gone, and to pretend that it never existed.
My life, as it is now:
-The three walls of my simple house
-A partial roof
-An electric kettle missing a base
-One rubber-banded pile of mail
-Two delicate ivory shoe horns
-A torn jacket
-Three items of underclothing
-Pants, size 32.
The mail is for Florence and Maurice. I’m collecting it for them while they are away on their trip overseas. Of course they will never return, but it doesn’t hurt to have a project, and I can think of worse things than scooping out letters from the near piles of gently kissing wreckage.
I think I am the only one left, though it’s true there could be others hiding out amidst the rubble.
Besides the mail, I have one other hobby. Operating under the theory that my seed, or at least some percentage of it, may be as resilient as I am, I direct it towards the planets, or to clusters of stars that seem especially fertile. It moves with surprising speed in this frictionless vacuum. Perhaps, without knowing it, I may impregnate something.
I was never a father, but I had a friend who was a father and a poet. “Both lines may end at any time,” he said. “That’s the terror of having created.” His final piercing terror, I assume, was a short lived one. After that comes–what? Inevitability. The same for anyone.