Harbingers—The Marsh’s Edge
18 July 2019“Harbingers” is an ongoing series of articles, stories, and reflections by Bhante Sujato on living in the age of global warming.
The little girl crouched at the marsh’s edge. Stick in hand, she scratched at the mud. Not random, by any means: she was very serious and intent on her work.
She drew lines, crossed them, joined the corners with circles, and made spirals all around. It made something like a flower or a maze. But she was right on the water’s edge, and the mud was soft and squishy. So as she drew, the water, tepid and briny, lapped over her pattern, wiping it out. That was the game: how much could she draw before it got washed away?
Her mother was just over there, wading in the shallows, looking for yams. They’d been out since first light, and by now, a couple of hours later, the sun was starting to burn, and the weird heat of the day was pushing in.
Mother and daughter were both covered up well, no skin exposed, hoods pulled down over the face. The girl’s dress, tattered though it was, still kept some faded yellow flowers. The dust was almost settled this morning, and her coughing had only a little blood. It wasn’t too bad a day, as days go.
The mother looked over at her daughter, blankly checking that she was still there, still okay. It was all just so exhausting. She knew she should love her daughter; knew that, somewhere down there, there must be some kind of love. But it had been ever so long since she had energy enough to feel it. She had no room left for the sweeter emotions. She wondered, briefly, at this; it didn’t feel like a lack, exactly. It was just normal. It was just how it was. Sometimes she thought she should have something more to offer her child, but the fact of it was she was too tired to feel guilty.
Her child, still scratching, turned up a worm. She stopped and looked at it, wriggling softly, all grey belly and slime. It turned about, looking for a way back into the easy marsh. She leaned forward and, ever so carefully, picked the worm up in a handful of mud. Moving downstream a little, she placed it back where it belonged, in a nice, untouched bed of soil. She watched as it wriggled itself back under the earth.
Noticing her mother watching her, the little girl looked up and waved shyly. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, deep and silent, at the strange feeling she felt within. In wonder, she realised: this is joy.