there was a long shear of bright light,
then a series of low concussions.
I think it's October.
but I can't be sure.
I haven't kept a calendar for years.
each day is more gray than the one before.
it's cold.
I'm growing colder.
as the world slowly dies.
no animals have survived.
all the crops have long gone.
soon all the trees in the world will fall.
the roads are peopled by refugees towing carts.
and gangs carrying weapons.
looking for fuel and food.
within a year there were fires on the ridges.
and deranged chanting.
there has been cannibalism.
cannibalism is the great fear.
mostly, I worry about food.
always food
food, and the cold, and our shoes.
sometimes I tell the boy the old stories of courage and justice.
difficulties as they are to remember.
all I know is the child is my warrant.
and if he is not the word of God.
then God never spoke.
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