Row well and live

“Sally, what do you see?” Eliza asked, sprawled on a blanket, listening to the sounds of the night, her eyes wide as she stared into the sky.

“I see stars blinking in the dark tapestry of the universe. I see the full moon, and the craters etched into its face. I see a future full of adventure and a life full of wonder. What do you see?”

“I don’t know.” Eliza paused—then almost choking, added, “I want to see beauty and hope, like you do. But all I see is darkness and uncertainty. How is it that you’re always so positive?”

“Is ‘positive’ the right word?” Sally said gently. “I think I’m just full of hope. Like Desmond Tutu said: ‘Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.’ I see what is—and what it could be.”

Eliza blew raspberries with her tongue.

“Why do you have to be such a know-it-all?” she snapped. Then, mimicking Sally’s sweet tone, she added,

“Good in what is, good in what could be!”

She made a face. “Same damn thing. It’s just seeing good, period. I don’t think that—”

“Did you see it?” Sally interrupted, her voice bright. “Did you see the shooting star?”

“Yeah, I saw it,” Eliza said flatly.

“Did you have time to make a wish?” Sally asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

“No! No one can! You see the trail, and by the time you realize what it is, it’s gone. Just like everything else. Wishes, stars, dreams. All gone before you can even react. Is all part of this cosmic joke. Hope is a myth. Wishing for better is folly. There is nothing better…. Nothing will ever get better.”

A beat of silence. Then, Sally replied softly: “I did. I made a wish.”

Eliza groaned. “Oh, of course. And now we must continue with this fantasy, huh? Alright, Miss Goody-Tush—what did you wish for?”

“I wished for you to see what I see,” Sally said. Her voice was softer now, like it had leaned closer, almost afraid Eliza would swat the words away.

“Not because I’m right,” she giggled and continued. “But because it’s lonely, believing in beauty when no one else can.”

Eliza didn’t answer.

Then Sally whispered, “Don’t you ever get lonely?”

Eliza stared at the endless sky—vast, littered with stars, some of them blinking back at her, making her feel so impossibly small.

Sally’s voice returned, gentle but insistent, “Don’t you ever get tired of not believing? Not believing that something good will happen? ‘The world is more than what we know’ like Esther would say.”

“I want to believe! I want to believe that life is a miracle. I want to believe that good will always win, because there is fairness, justice, compassion. But... how can I?”

Eliza closed her eyes and all she could see was fire.

Forests stripped bare, their roots clawing at scorched earth.

Animals slaughtered for meat, for sport, for pride.

Whales split open on blackened shores, their bellies bloated with plastic and trash.

Buildings crumbling.

Families fleeing.

Children alone in cages, their eyes too tired for tears.

A woman bleeding out in a car outside a hospital, because what she carried—even though it was already lost—was still valued more than her own life.

A young man shot in the streets by deputies, for no reason at all.

A man turned away at the pharmacy, told his insulin wasn’t covered anymore—left to decide between medicine or rent.

A man in a suit, signing away what little safety others had left.

She opened her eyes again, but the stars offered no comfort.

“How can I believe,” Eliza whispered, “that life is more than what we know—when we’re left to our own devices, ruled by power-hungry psychopaths, propped up by the mob—for spectacle. Because for some, cruelty is easier to worship than compassion?”

Her voice cracked, but she kept going.

“There is no higher power. No grand plan. Just dust, and time, and the stories we whisper to survive. Fantasies to help the broken endure just enough suffering—with just enough dignity—to keep serving those who have everything.”

Eliza let out a bitter laugh, remembering a line from the same old film Sally had quoted earlier.

“We keep you alive to serve this ship. So row well, and live.”

That’s all it ever was.

Not justice. Not compassion. Just obedience—fed to the working class as a promise of a better future, somewhere in this life or the next.

And those at the helm? They thrived on the unfortunate believing.

Despair flooded her. Tears welled in Eliza’s eyes, smearing the stars into a blur. One tear slid down her cheek, and she could feel its cold path onto the blanket. She hated the stars—hated the everlasting sky and all its false glory.

Eliza sneered, “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” Sally said gently. “You’re just tired. Tomorrow will be better.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the distant rhythm of crickets and the faint who-who of an owl, echoing somewhere to her left. The kind of night that felt still, suspended—like time had paused just long enough to let the sky breathe.

Then, Eliza sighed and sat up, yanking off the goggles—forgetting her headphones were still on her head and cursing when they tumbled off and hit the ground with a thud.

The world exploded into chaos.

Sirens. Shouting. Drones overhead. No stars—just thick smog choking out the sky. The crickets and owls had never been real. Neither had been the stars above. They were stitched into code, programmed to soothe. A replica of a world that no longer existed—or maybe never had.

She stood and gathered the blanket, staring up at the dark. Nothing looked back.

Eliza bent over to pickup her goggles and quickly placed them into their cover. She looked around for her headphones but could not find them. She turn on the flashlight on her phone to look for them. Even the ground looked and felt hostile—cracked pavement, still holding the heat of the day.

She found her headphones and slide them on like armor, Eliza said, “Sally, play me a song.”

A soft chime replied, gentle and loyal:

“Playing... Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A major. Second movement. For what was lost, and what might still be found.”