The Song at the End of the World

Long, long ago she had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, or had she swam there? Years and years and years of quiet had become leveled sand, a weighted blanket covering her with welcome pressure whispering stay here, where do you need to go, there’s nowhere you need to be.

When was the last time she had seen the surface?

Memories of her last time seeing the surface were fuzzy, but how could they not be? Memories of herself–her name, her friends, her family, her home, her appearance–were fuzzy. The memories were there, certainly, but they were there the way that a plushie, worn from years of cradling, that has fallen into the black hole crevice between the bed and the wall is there. They were a hazy mist waiting for a night of hard rainfall to wash them away. They were blurred the way a graphite drawing smudges when touched even ever so gently.

Crystal blue waters still as a sheet of blown glass with dancing spots of sunlight; slate waves stretching high towards the sky and thundering down in a brutal crash, illuminated by an explosion of striking lightning; seafoam and seaweed and messages in bottles floating wherever chance would take them. Gliding vowels, locks of gold and silver, reefs every color of the rainbow populated with fish every color that could be imagined, and a tail so brilliant blue that all the oceans of the world could not compare. It was almost like a dream.

If she reached for these memories of hers she could surely drag them into the light, but that would require she remembered she had them to begin with.

Had she been asleep? It was hard to tell in this sea of silence if her eyes had been closed or if there was just nothing to see. If her consciousness had wandered off or if it had just returned. If she was anywhere at all.

But then she heard it. A song.

It was

so (a hole where the heart should be)

so (perceived but not understood)

lonely.

And she stretched and she twisted and she reached up, shaking off the cobwebs of an idle mind and warming the gears of an idle body. But when she had risen from the seafloor and the sand had shed from her scales, she had to stop for a second. How to swim? Did her tail sweep from side to side like a shark? Did it beat up and down like a dolphin? Where did her arms go?

Fainter. Further. The hum was fading.

In her desperation she thrashed her tail however it would move, her arms reaching out as if to beg the sound to wait…just a moment……for her………

        up

     swam

She

The water was growing warmer, lighter. The song, stronger. She was growing tired. When was the last time she had moved?

It was a whale. Still singing even though for all their travels their high pitched cry had never reached a kindred spirit. 52 hertz. Too high to be heard but still searching, tirelessly. Even though by now, there was no one left to search for. Whale and song were finally sta r t i n g t o s l o w.

It was now just the two of them left on this lonely planet–a once beautiful planet but a now empty planet. Where had everyone else gone? Maybe the last human had disappeared when the sun's last ray had dimmed. Maybe the last vampire had disappeared with the last of the unicorns who had disappeared with the last of the fair maidens. Maybe the last tree had disappeared when there were no more bird to rest on its branches and so the last breeze blew off its last shriveled leaves, sending them drifting down for the last time. Maybe the last fairy had disappeared when the last dragon had given up its horde of gold for a horde of stars. Maybe the last fish had disappeared when the last skyscraper had crumbled back into the earth from where it came.

This whale’s song would eventually end, as all things did, and she knew it too would disappear, as all things did. Its body would first fall to the ocean floor and it would decay beautifully; had there been anyone left, it would have provided food and shelter for decades. However now its bones would turn to dust and where there would have been many, there would be one.

And when this whale had finished its singing it would be her turn. She would return to the surface for the first time since the seas had gone silent and she would find a rock, the last rock, and she would sing. She would sing to herself and to whatever and whoever was left to listen and she would sing of when the oceans were first filled to when they were finally emptied. She would sing the name of everyone in her life she had ever known because that would be the last time those names would ever be mentioned. And even if the only one listening was emptiness, at least they would all have the honor of their names being called one last time. And when she had finished singing it would be her turn.

The song at the end of the world is the most beautiful song the world has ever known but only because of all the songs that have come before it.