24 June 2018
Look, I’m sorry, but there’s just no room left for you in this world, for old fashioned things like you. And me.
Everyone is talking right now about how amazing it would be for humans to feel connected to nature; have they tried it lately? It fucking hurts. I’ll trade any unconnected, callous asshole; I pine to feel less connected for a while.
I feel you, tiny mama, that’s me too, lying there in the gutter, belly up, my back cracked open and my guts and eggs all over the street. How long. How long did you lay there, oozing life and praying for death.
Do turtles pray? What am I saying. Turtles are prayer, shells folded hands. Constant prayer in solid state alive. Well, was alive.
I hope it was painless. Looks like the impact broke up your spine right away so maybe it was painless, long and confusing probably, painless maybe.
I got the last two of your eggs before the crows did. I had to rummage around a bit, I’m sorry, but saved them for you. I know that’s where you were headed, to lay them in the new neighbors’ chemical lawn. When you hatched from there, would that have been, what, about 10 years ago? That would have been old-what’s-his-toots then, with his native-xeriscape yard. Pretty different now. I guess you don’t go by looks though, not how the whole homing beacon thing works, huh. I’ve got one or two of those, too, I think.
Anyway, I put them in moist sphagnum moss in a Tupperware container and set them on the front porch in the shade, after some googling, in case you still want them, you know, out there. I wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t. I’m not sure about my own eggs these days.
I’m so sorry about everything, about my species, about everything. Thank you, mama, for all your constant prayer.