Mother by Rose Moczygemba

Tell me that the mother has not yet lost her faith in us.

Tell me that the trees can grow back, that the creatures will return to rustle in the underbrush, that the birds will make their nests on sturdy branches and bring their fledglings worms and bugs. The rodents will dig their burrows among the roots and the hunters will sniff them out, collapse their holes in on them and eat their fill. That balance will settle in the forest the way it did before we took advantage and ceased to think about anything other than ourselves.

Tell me that the deserts will retreat, will grow smaller, and the civilizations they have chased out can settle again. Oases that have long dried up to dust will begin to fill again, creating a small haven for the snakes and the lizards that need the heat, but crave the coolness that comes with the water. The weight of the sweltering air will ease, just a little, just enough for life to reclaim the sands once more.

Tell me that the waves of the oceans will stop bringing the evidence of our carelessness back to stare us in the face. The water will be clear and clean for the simple souls beneath the surface, a home for the aquatic critters on the very bottom living in complete darkness. The spills we’ve allowed, the mistakes we’ve made, will fade and make the reefs to regrow, for the soft colors to filter the water.

Tell me that the swamps will fill again with the cries of birds, the hisses of alligators and snakes, the chitters of the tiny bugs that are integral to the environment. The murky water will stir only with the movement of the creatures that belong there in its depths, and not with the machines we built to travel where we shouldn’t have been. Thick undergrowth will be impenetrable to everything but the most determined, most nimble creatures, the ones that were made to navigate the labyrinth of shadows and come out the other side unscathed.

Tell me that the ice flows can still merge back together and make paths for the bears and penguins that live on opposite sides of the planet. The temperatures will fall, be so cold that the ground never even sees the possibility of thawing, the way it is meant to be. Our footprint will be covered with fresh snow, which in turn will bear the prints of the foxes and the winter hares, the shallow drag of the seals seeking out the freezing waters they love best.

Tell me that we can still reverse the damage.

Tell me that we still have the chance to make right what we have so badly wronged.

Tell me that it is not too late for us to heal the mother.