31 — Ripe

My head lulls, I take a breath. It doesn’t burn. I look down, with each step we take fauna blooms around us. Ripe greens and yellows. Trees burst from the ground, the sound of leaves flourishing above.

I look at her face. She says without her mouth moving, “I’m sorry, I had to defend my planet. My child. It’s gone through so much before you. Natural disasters from misuse and finally war from it’s inhabitants. I couldn’t see it hurt anymore.” She lies me on a rock. I look up at the light seeping through the lush canopy. Pockets of light coming and going quicker than the last.