Migrations

by Charlotte McConaghy

But a will is a powerful thing, and mine has been called terrible.

But the rhythms of the sea’s tides are the only things we humans have not yet destroyed.

“Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?”

From the rufous hummingbird, which survived in the freezing altitude of fourteen thousand feet to the Rüppell’s griffon vulture, which could fly as high as a commercial airplane. These extraordinary creatures were undoubtedly the most successful on earth, because they courageously learned to exist anywhere.”

“Have another toke instead.” After a while, he says, “My family’s Irish. Way back.” “Convicts?” He grins. “Couple of generations after that. They were just people looking for a better life.” “Than what?” “Than poverty. Isn’t that the way of all migrations? Poverty or war.

“Don’t you … Why don’t any of you seem to care about what you’re doing?” “’Course we care. It used to be such a good way to make money.” He folds his arms, lets that sink in, and then he tops it off by saying, “And it’s not us, you know. Global warming’s killing the fish.” I stare at him. “Aside from also fishing to excess and contaminating the waters with toxins, who do you think caused global warming?” “Come on, Franny, this is boring. Let’s not talk politics.” I can’t believe him, I really can’t, and then it’s like standing at the bottom of a mountain I have no way to scale, and I’m exhausted, I’m exhausted by Basil and his small selfish world, and I’m exhausted by my own hypocrisy because I’m just as human and just as responsible as he is, and so in the end I slump back in my seat and close my mouth.

to. I don’t think they’re scum—against all my better judgment I’m actually starting to like these people—but there’ll always be a part of me that’s disgusted by what they do. Maybe once upon a time the world could tolerate the way we hunted, the way we devoured, but not anymore.

We’re the only planet that has oceans. In all the known universe, we’re the only one sitting in the perfect spot for them, not too hot and not too cold, and it’s the only reason we’re alive, because it’s the ocean that creates the oxygen we need to breathe. It’s a miracle we’re here at all, when you think about it like that.”

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.

“My grandmother would say that for a moment he visited the spirit world. We called him back and perhaps he’ll thank us for that and perhaps he won’t. Some think it unkind to be forced from such a place.” “Have you spoken to people who’ve returned from there?” “They say they have.” “Do you believe them?” I want him to say yes, I want it so badly, but he only shrugs. “How do they describe it?” Anik thinks for a time and I realize I have leaned so far forward I’m in danger of slipping off the seat. “They say it is free of rules or punishments,” he says. “They call it weightless, and very beautiful.” And suddenly I am crying. “Everyone goes there?” “That’s what they say.” “Even us? Even me?” “Yes.” “And the ones we love?” “Of course.”

Because it seems to me, suddenly, that if it’s the end, really and truly, if you’re making the last migration not just of your life but of your entire species, you don’t stop sooner. Even when you’re tired and starved and hopeless. You go farther.