The Pretenders

Seven days. That’s all that remains. I know it. They know it. We all know it.

We don’t mention it. Not explicitly. But we venture to fix it.

On the first day, we reach the traffic of the intersection, noticing the glaring neon sign that advises us not to cross. The man in front of me looks briefly from side to side. He steps forward. We step forward. He is a shepherd. We are sheep.

On the second day, we sit in the boardroom in stale air under fluorescent lights. We make plans to invoke change. We agree to abandon people and belongings that don’t bring us joy. We agree they are toxic. We agree they are holding us back. Out loud, we agree.

On the third day, we leave the city smog. The sun scorches the earth beneath our feet. We say we enjoy the warm weather. We suffocate in the humidity. We continue walking.

On the fourth day, we march mindlessly, passing blindly by hurricanes and fires that roar miles away. We feel the wind’s force and the flames’ heat, but they have no significant effect on our path. We ignore them, and soon, we forget them.

On the fifth day, we admire the stars in the sky. What natural beauty this world has, we say. Beauty we can only see away from city lights. We are going the right way.

On the sixth day, we see mountains on the horizon. Trees gather at their base, the canopy covered in snow. We sense the life that awaits. We sense a shadow looming behind us.

On the seventh day, we reach our destination. We hear the rustling of the leaves in the wind. We feel the warmth of the sun above. The rustling turns to whipping. The warmth begins to burn. The fires and hurricanes we left behind have overtaken us. We don’t look at each other. Out loud, we express fear. But fear indicates hope. Silently, we knew there never was hope.

Seven days. That’s all that remained. I knew it. They knew it. We all knew it.

We didn’t mention it. But we pretended we could fix it.