Not Meant for This

Marco lived with his family in what was once referred to as the northern part of Canada, though that had little bearing in his life. He did know that he loved his woodland home, a true natural paradise it seemed. He also knew some inklings of the beforetimes, both from what he could discern from his parents and from the rements of the derelict clues scattered all around him. According to his dear parents, Carlos and Maria, his own great-grandparents had emigrated – fled – to this region from down south, from an area called Texas, which, he was told, was once part of a great empire. The decaying clues both fueled his imagination of what ’empire’ meant while surpressing doubts of its seeming impossibility. Old, worn, leaf-torn books seemed to confirm his parents’ tale: it was hot. Too hot. People simply couldn’t tolerate it, and the few lucky ones fled for cooler reprieve. What’s more, crucially, is that certain systems of convenience, such as water-flowing pipes and tropical fruit in Winter, incomprehensible synthetic medicine, and electricity – something he especially couldn’t wrap his mind around – had begun failing one by one. And, evidently, shortly thereafter, the empire collapsed, just like that. Fleeing the heat made sense; even his own summers were beginning to get more than a little uncomfortable. But, he couldn’t understand how people had (let themselves) become so dependent on these so-called “conviences” – his own family thrived without any of these flashy concepts. How did these people become so disconnected from their environments? But what especially haunted him was this: why didn’t they do anything about it? It was this nightmare question from which he awoke in a cold sweat.

Marco took rapid breaths as the wakeful world descended upon him and familiarity returned. He lay swaying in his hammock, subject to a gentle breeze flitting through his floral home. Eyes adjusting to the blinding dark, he watched the calm rise and fall of his hermanita Isabela’s sleeping breath. But, looking around more, the large joint hammock of his parents was empty, as were their individual ones. As Marco’s mind worked processing this, perhaps his nose was last to cross once more over into the wakeful world, for the unmistakeable scent of a campfire finally breached his nostrils, rising through his still-waking daze to full consciousness.

Groping the ground with searching tippy-toes then placing tentative feet, he slipped out of his hammock, careful not to disturb Hermanita, and returning to tip-toes, crept toward to where he now knew his parents must be. “We can’t stay here much longer, viejo,” he heard his mother say. At risk of being caught, he crept closer, some unknown need, perhaps stoked by his nightmare, pushing him forward. Breaking his gaze from the spellbinding gold of the fire, he watched its orange flames illuminate creases of worry on his parents’ faces, and it was then that Marco was struck with an overwhelming love and adoration for his padres scarcely comparable to anything he’d ever felt before.

Pasaron muchas caras de la luna when Carlos and Maria finally judged that sus hijos Marco y Isabela were strong and grown enough. They’d prepared them over the course of many of these most recent caras, and as a warm Spring settled in their valley, today it was finally their turn to partake in that great Human story of migration and perform their own great journey.