Desert

Untitled Part 1

You cough as dust plumes up from where your shovel breaks into the orange loam. Your tears are the first water this earth has seen since before you can remember. That doesn't mean much though. Your memory is as scattered as the stars and the sand in the wind.

You lay the soft, now cold body into earth. Fur the same color as the soil. Your only companion, now behind you. Practically, there is no reason to cover her body. There are no vultures to pick her body clean. Yet you find your hands again on the weathered handle of the shovel, enveloping your last friend in soil and sorrows.

You leave no marker at her grave. There's no point, no rock will stand out against the rubble, against the cadmium sky. You would say a prayer if you knew one, but any memory of religion was eroded away long ago.

You trudge back to your small home, wind whipping at your back. You used to care about the rusty stains on your clothes, wash them meticulously after every venture outdoors, but at this point everything you know is stained with rust.

As you close the door, pressure hissing into the room, you feel a sudden pang of loss. No longer does a small, warm body brushing against your legs as you step over the threshold. No more plaintive mewling at her bowl. You have so many of those cans and their bright blue labels saved, expecting so many more days. You don't know what to do with them now.

Verdance, planted in once bright pots, is your only companion now. You saved every plant you could, for survival and comfort. Hardy kale and carrots are some of the only crops that can survive the brutal soil, beaten by relentless winds. They make up most of your diet, supplemented by cans that you can no longer read.

You consider breaking into those short cans, smelling of some unknown meat. You do need the protein. But it just feels... wrong.

One of the few pleasures you take in this broken world is peppermint tea. You used to know all the medicinal reasons to brew, but those no longer matter to you. All you know is that the sharp green taste takes you somewhere else, somewhere not so orange.

You bring the water to a boil in a small ceramic teapot, a light teal finish chipped from daily use. It's maybe the most vibrant thing you have. Far more cheery than the reddish wastes you see out your kitchen window.

The shimmer of the steam shakes you from your reverie. You seem to lose track of time more and more every day. The hours just seem to slip from your head. You pour the boiling water over dried leaves, watching them swirl in the current. You brew it loose leaf. Filters keep the air inside fresh, they aren't to be wasted on tea.

You set your mug, a forgotten heirloom, on the counter to steep.