Migrations

by Charlotte McConaghy

I had thought my life was just here, with me.

Then again, it’s a fool who tries to protect a creature from its own instincts.

A nameless sadness, the fading away of the birds. The fading away of the animals. How lonely it will be here, when it’s just us.

We are, all of us, given such a brief moment of time together, it hardly seems fair. But it’s precious, and maybe it’s enough, and maybe it’s right that our bodies dissolve into the earth, giving our energy back to it, feeding the little creatures in the ground and giving nutrients to the soil, and maybe it’s right that our consciousness rests. The thought is peaceful.

A life’s impact can be measured by what it gives and what it leaves behind, but it can also be measured by what it steals from the world.

It isn’t fair to be the kind of creature who is able to love but unable to stay.

That in our self-importance, in our search for meaning, we have forgotten how to share the planet that gave us life.