The Trail

The trail is long and straight and flat and sad and packed and lonely.

I ask the trail if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says if time’s a trail then the world will end, but no, it doesn’t know.

The trail is dead and alive. Like me, it is alive. Like me, it has a start. I ask the start if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says it has always been the start, seeing people live and begin. Bikes spin, adults run, babies live and begin. The start says it has never seen the end, but no, it doesn’t know.

The trail is dead and alive, and when I’m alone the trail is dead. Frustrated, I ask death if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says it’s here now, but it was so back then, so no, it doesn’t know.

A man walking toward me crosses the trail to keep me alone and alive. Downcast eyes and smile covered, a park of half-faced people. I ask his mask if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says that maybe everything is just a phase, a dip in time, a spot on the trail. It says that maybe life will trickle back the way humanity seeps out from paper precaution, but no, it doesn’t know.

I walk past the trees that line the trail, and some of them are still growing. Like me, they are still growing. I ask a growing tree if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says it wants to see the horizon; it says it wants to scratch the sky. It says asleep it dreams, but awake it knows not all trees reach the clouds. It says it’s thankful for its roots and leaves, but nothing that is growing is finished. It says it dreams of seeing its parents above, and one day its children below, but no, it doesn’t know. 

I walk over leaves that have fallen from trees, grinding fragments of earth into dust. I ask a bit of decay if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says it made peace with the ending last night, fallen, in bed and alone. It says it has come to accept that the world could end, or just it, forgotten dust. The leaf dying alone says maybe all we can hope for is a forest falling together. But it admits it hasn't really made peace with that at all, so no, it doesn’t know.

A stream wells up on the side of the trail, water spinning, rising, falling. I ask the water if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says if the world is water then time isn’t linear but a bath you’re born and die in. No start or end, just cycles and streams, warm until you’re dead. Time existing before and after us, time and water above and below. Without starts nothing ends, but without starts nothing is, so no, it doesn’t know. 

A woman keeps her dog from lurching toward me— unknowing, the dog hasn’t heard. I ask the dog if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It doesn’t think about starts; it just thinks about now; it certainly doesn’t think about ends. It says right now we’re held back, but we won’t be forever, and isn’t that exciting, so exciting? It says if we can’t live forever, we can live before we die, and so no, it doesn’t know.

Families part to let me pass, rare pockets of crowds, group loneliness. I ask a baby if the world is ending, but it says it doesn’t know. It says all it has known is birth and beginnings, family and love locked together. It says it was born in the moment someone somewhere else died, simultaneous elation and anguish. It says on the worst day it will have someone else will be born, and times are never just bad. It says people sleep in darkness while others bathe in the sun, and so no, it doesn’t know.

The trail bridges over the town here, crossroads of humans and nature. Sometimes, I think that pain starts where the trees stop, but maybe joy does, too. Pain and joy, but nothing today, an empty town below the bridge. Infrequent cars and lonely people, all fighting one battle but fighting alone.

I stand on the edge of the bridge; I stand on the edge of the world. I ask the town if the world is ending, and I scream at the top of my lungs.

There is silence for a moment: just me, a trail, a town. More life in the trees than the breaks in between, for a moment, and then they come out.

One by one, the people come out. They trickle before they pour. A man opens the window, a dog parks the car, a baby steps onto the porch. Emerging from the ashes, painted doors, panes of glass. A town materializes to answer.

They scream back at me, they shout toward the crossroads, a town yelling up to the trail. Isn’t emptiness love? Isn’t loneliness solidarity? Aren’t vacant streets just us all in it together? People pour out from the alleys, the roofs, and the manholes, here to exist and to yell. They shout that six feet away just means we crave closeness. They shout that distance is a middle, not a start nor an end.

They stand apart but together, different but the same. Telling me there’s a lot you can say from six feet away. Telling me six feet away says a lot.

I walk along the rest of the trail now, voices pounding in my head. Their houses line the trail here, and their houses all shout, too. They say they don’t know if the world is ending, all they know is where they stand. All they know is what they see: us being who we are. Painted doors and panes of glass, rainbows in the windows. Colors telling of hope in the dark: us being who we are.

There are rainbows in the windows, and I’ve reached the end of the trail. I ask the end if the world is ending, but it doesn’t say anything at all.

The trail is long and love and hope and sad and filled and over.

I turn around and start.