TITLE: "Her Cold Children"
AUTHOR: K.A. Vandlyn
Mother Nature loves her creations.
She loves the mushroom that peeks its soft, pale dome from the ground. Sunlight breaks through the billowing pine tree branches, warming over it. It is small, hidden between the roots of the great evergreen tree that towers above it, with its brothers and sisters scattered next to it. It is small, but not insignificant. Standing tall and proud, it is empowered by the strength pulsing in the soil below.
She loves the squirrels, the noble court that builds their homes within her trees. Their silky, bushy tails brustle in the breeze as they climb and jump through the branches. The squirrel skitters down the trunk of the tree, ears flicking as it reaches the mushroom. With its small claws it tugs at the stem, pulling the mushroom from its roots. Tucking it in its jaw, it races back up the tree.
She loves the bears, the great beings of the forest, that majestically roam through the trees. The bear’s fur gently brushes against the mushrooms and its beady black eyes watch the squirrel retreat up the tree before continuing its rounds through the forest, each thundering step echoing.
The balance of a forest is like a tapestry, beautifully and masterfully woven. But within time, every tapestry ages, its strings loosening and falling apart, and a gashing hole tears through.
And Mother Nature mourns her creations.
She mourns the bony fingers of children who are too young to understand. But does the old man, whose back hunches over from the burden of his years, know any more than them? And yet the people pretend to understand. They pretend to understand the snow that drowns the streets and fields in white and the stores whose shelves remain bare. All they can do is fade to the background and pretend to understand the hopes and dreams of someone else.
She mourns the armies that march down the red streets of St. Petersburg, their voices booming through the streets. Their hopes and dreams are fulfilled. They have secured the land, the bread, the power. “Peace, Land, Bread,” they tell each other, echoing the sentiments of every revolution that came before them.
She mourns the jewels scattered across the red marble floors. Blood stains the floor of the empire that was thought to be eternal.
Empires and kingdoms all rose and fell on this ground. The Soviet Union was no exception. Born from a desire for something better and purer, and murdered by the individual’s inability to contain their greed. History is stained with dirt and blood that can never be washed away, remaining as a permanent mark of the horrors that have slipped through the years.
But the heart is separate from history as the tapestry is separate from its creator. The beautiful essence of the people, their culture and their folktales and their stories, remain untainted, a tragic, shining light as to what our world could be if human nature first reached for love and empathy, rather than the heavy sword.
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