Migrations

by Charlotte McConaghy

I don’t know how to force the world into a shape I can manage. Nobody ever seems to do what I want them to.

The Arctic tern has the longest migration of any animal. It flies from the Arctic all the way to the Antarctic, and then back again within a year. This is an extraordinarily long flight for a bird its size. And because the terns live to be thirty or so, the distance they will travel over the course of their lives is the equivalent of flying to the moon and back three times.”

“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.

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.