What Comes After

As we walked back, I said, "We can go to the post office later, if you want to, you know, process everything."

She started walking a bit slower. "I thought they were going to be alright. At worst, a couple of broken ribs."

"I think we all thought that," I replied. "And you know, you shouldn't blame yourself for this because it's pointless."

"But I can't," she said and turned to me. "Sometimes, I wish that I could care less—"

"Don't say that," I said, cutting her off, but she cut me off right after.

"It's the truth," she said. "But I care a lot. Maybe it's because I can't stand to lose another person again, even if that person is a complete stranger or maybe it's because I can't keep surviving like this, just looking out for ourselves. Life just feels so pointless sometimes because I feel like we're living like machines and robots instead of the people we are."

I didn't know how to respond to what she just said, mostly because sometimes, I feel this way too, like there's just not a whole lot to life anymore. But, you know, she had a vision about where her life was going in her previous life, even if Mom and Dad didn't really agree with it, and life opening up once again seems like too much. It's like life feels so restrictive and so bare bones right now, but that feels better than before because when you have to make choices, it just always comes with regret, and I even know what I'm saying now. I guess it's just because the whole situation feels like it's coming from some dramatic movie or TV show instead of real life.

The rest of the walk was silent, as branches rustled against each other, and boot print stamped leaves drifted in the air with the breeze and tiny grains of ash slipped between the cracks in the road formed from the earthquake. When we arrived at the post office, there was a little more pep in her step, maybe because the thought of receiving a letter from Leon had crowded all the other thoughts in her mind.

There wasn't a big line there, maybe only a couple of people, but it was pretty clear that there was a huge line yesterday, judging by the orange cones lining the sidewalks and zig-zagging the now empty parking lot. It's weird how instead of preparing water or defending their homes, people were spending lots of time waiting for letters from people far away. Maybe that's what hope looks like.

When we entered the post shop, there were bins of letters and packages everywhere, splayed across the floor, as one lonely worker picked up the letters and moved them into the corners, and when Mira told them Leon's last name, the worker pointed us to a corner, and said that the letters should be somewhere there. Apparently, according to the worker, yesterday, a mob of people stormed the line, and everything devolved into chaos after a few minutes of peace, so that's why everything is scattered everywhere.

So we dug into the pile and began sifting through the postcards and letters. I flipped over postcards, some with Yosemite emblazoning them, others with the Rockies and shaggy bison, and some with bright splashes of orange trees and palm fronds. I flipped over one of the cards with a picture of Devil's Tower on it with the date of May 18th on it with a short message:

You open for fishing this weekend? It's been a while, and I miss you. - JT

I wonder if they ever got the chance to fish, but I doubt it since this letter was probably sent before everything happened and whomever it was sent to didn't pick it up. Maybe that's what I'll write my story about to try to give them a happy ending, even if it's just in my imagination. This might be the way that I help make sure people aren't forgotten. I don't know why but I started flipping over lots of postcards, reading the short messages written on them that were never received.

Your daughter and I are staying at your father's old cabin. I know that everything didn't end well last time, but don't do this to our daughter. Come home. - Annie, dated August 17th.

Will you marry me, Nick? I know we've only met online and on letters, but I want to do it even if it's across mail. I love you, and I promise, we'll have a better one when things get better - Kyle, dated July 23rd.

I'm so sorry. We tried to protect her, but we couldn't do it. She's laying under the cottonwood with the swing on it. She said it was her favorite place in the world. I'm so sorry - Jim, dated August 3rd.

Surprised the post still works. Typical government prioritizing letters over people. Stay strong sis, and like Daddy used to say, you ain't done 'til you're done - Lilith, dated August 6th.

Take off that stupid hat of yours - CJ, dated June 25th.

Add just a bit of egg whites and baking powder. That's the secret to my grandma's hardtack. It's forever food, but don't burn down the house. Love you Liam. - Mom, dated July 18th.

Just because the world's ending doesn't mean that I want you back. I never want to see your sorry face or read another whiny letter. - your not-girlfriend, dated August 11th.

I'm waiting for you, where we first met under the redwoods. If you truly meant forever, here's our chance. I'm sorry for everything, but I'm asking to give us another chance. I'll be there until October. - Taylor, dated July 30th.

There were hundreds of other letters lying sprawled across the floor, with inside jokes and messages of hope and recipes and micro-stories and cries of love and despair. I wanted to take some of these letters with me, so that maybe someone will at least know that someone got their message. But there still was a possibility that someone would pick up these postcards, so I organized them based on alphabetical order and left them there for another person to look through. Maybe they'll be able to find each other. I can only hope.

As I was organizing the letters and postcards, I noticed that Mira had gone quiet and that the shuffling of papers in her corner had stopped. She had opened a letter and was reading it with a bittersweet smile, her hand trembling a little, and that's when I knew that that was Leon's letter, so I moved a bit away from her and picked up the scattered postcards to give her a bit of privacy. And when she was done, she carefully put the letter back into its envelope, and when I asked her about it, she just nodded, and that was good enough for all of us. Sometimes, words can't express the way that we feel completely.

The walk home was quiet, but the good type of quiet, and I could see that Mira was a bit distracted, either thinking about the letter or maybe formulating some plan to help, but whatever it was, I don't think she was thinking about the couple that had died, at least at that moment. There was too much pep in her step, and I think the letter brought some optimism in her life because when I asked her what she was thinking about, she said that she's ready to change the world, whatever that means.

When we got home, the whole living room had changed. All the mattresses were laid around the fireplace, albeit far enough that we didn't catch on fire accidentally, and the greenbox moved next to the window close to the fireplace as everyone settled into place. I was going to go shower when I realized that we didn't have any showers anymore, and Dad said that we didn't have much tap water left, so everyone could go and shower tomorrow. Apparently, he and Mom are now working very well together because they even devised a system of heating the water using hot stones instead of boiling the water directly since it would take too long.

Dinner was soup again, though I noticed that Mom and Dad were eating only about three-fourths of a bowl instead of the full bowl that they gave out to the rest of us. It took a long time to boil the water and make the soup because Mom and Dad weren't really sure if the rock heating method was safe for water to be eaten, so we ended up letting it sit next to the fire for about half-an-hour or so until it started bubbling. They added some corn and powdered garlic for flavor before serving us.

I just remembered that I've got to sneak food out to Charles somehow. I think it might do it tomorrow while Mom and Dad are distracted by the wood-chopping and water gathering that we need to do. It's going to be a long and painful day, but at least we're not going to be starving. I can't even imagine how Charles and his family are going to be able to gather wood and water on empty stomachs.