The After

In a quaint coastal town, the sun rises on a new day. A breeze blowing in from the open waters fills the air with a familiar smell. A smell that calms the soul of anyone who knows it. Feeling the warmth and nourishment, the leaves stiffen on the local plant life. Grasses and trees begin their daily routine of photosynthesis. The only sounds are those of nature. Branches creak, bugs scurry, and life continues. Sitting in the window of a long, empty house. A pathetic, containerized plant yearns for today’s generous yield. It isn’t a hardy plant. The narrow, pointed leaves, covered in dust, are underdeveloped and drooping. Some may say it’s the runt of its lineage. The white, sheer curtains, yellowing from age and neglect, hang neatly from a rod above the dirty glass of a bay window. It filters out much of the life-giving sun that the plant craves and needs. Yet still, the plant persists. The only goal: to survive and spread. A glass bulb, once filled with water, sits in the soil. Being almost empty now, it transforms from a product of convenience to a clock, ticking down to this unassuming plant’s inevitable demise. Though time dwindles, the plant notices nothing as its time runs out. This drafty old dwelling remained devoid of life for months until today. This plant, unbothered by the solitude, has never understood what the silence meant. A soft scratching echoes, not loudly, but if you were there, it would seem so. In an empty house, the only sounds being the groans of the soft wood frame expanding and contracting with the temperature, this sound is foreign. A meadow vole has found its way into the kitchen. The bounty of food left in the cupboards drawing it in from outside. Happily, it snacks on a sack of oats long forgotten. As the wind outside picks up, one lonely branch on the unremarkable plant sways. This branch was lucky. While reaching for the sun, it found a small escape. Aging silicon, cracking as it aged, peeled away from the single-pane glass on the large living room window. The old, wind-worn wood, splitting as it aged, left an opening big enough for this branch to squeeze through. The opening gave this plant its only avenue to spread lineage into the future. At the end of the branch hangs a pinhead of fruit. A hope for proliferation. Despite humanity’s month-long absence, life persists. I guess we aren’t that important to this world after all.