we were the last two humans on earth
We were the last two humans on earth —
me and her.
Her of my own.
Me, nothing without her.
I held her frail, wilting body,
succumbing slowly.
He couldn’t keep his promise.
“Daddy, can you tell me the story again?”
The birch trees stripped
like menacing spires,
telling us what we already knew —
that we didn’t belong here.
How could he deny her?
He began in a familiar rasp:
“There was… a man,
and he loved a woman.
Very,
very
much.”
He adjusted her onto his lap.
Her brow was sweating,
her almond eyes slowly shutting.
“Don’t stop.
Complete the story.”
But she had to go.
She had to go
to the other place.
He needed to tell her something —
something he didn’t get the chance to.
And to get to this place,
he had to pay the ferryman,
and traverse… so he could…
deliver his message.
“What was the message, daddy?”
He was so dehydrated,
so damn hungry,
he barely could tell
what story he told.
But he had to finish.
This was the message —
it was:
“I’ll take care of her.”
Her cheeks, once rosy and plump,
now a frosted canyon.
He recalled when he first swaddled her,
covered in blood,
bellowing out like Cerberus —
now only silence.
“Daddy… I kept this for you.”
He looked at the tiny palm extended,
the fingers curled towards the sky —
as if even the heavens couldn’t deny
a pinky promise.
A silver nickel glimmered,
polished by the tears that formed.
He looked at her pallid face,
her eyes still open,
lifeless.
He whimpered softly,
pleading that stories could be true —
those damn stories
and godforsaken gods.
Where were they now?
But there were no more stories.
They served no purpose anymore.
He keeled over onto the tundra,
finally ready to die,
acid snow pelting his face.
He remembered her first snow.
They had migrated up north.
She was so ecstatic,
sprawling over untouched white sheets.
“Look, daddy — I’m an angel.”
“Yes, bubba.
Yes, you are.”