My Cardboard Balcony

An Archaeologist's Crisis by Belinda Roddie Shovels scrape the capillaries of a living, breathing organism. I am superficially speechless at the site, struck into unconsciousness by Mother Nature's chloroform, her breath soaked in winter's pickled brine. We have dug up a relic of past endeavors. A queen mistaken for a king, a jester more noble than the salted monarchy. Herrings flung from silver platters, their bones more salvageable than any precious metal. Life is restless, but it is still fossilized. We pretend that it goes on forever. Not even stars boast of immortality. Their dust blows onward, but their mighty gestures of power are brief and fleeting. One blink, and you miss it. Shovels cut the arteries of a planet bleeding to death. Nothing will last through fire. The canvas will not be rendered blank - it will instead be scorched, and useless for repainting.

The old settlement had been abandoned long ago, not even touched by anyone who claimed to be a staunch preservationist. No one bothered to even try restoring the dilapidated log cabins and crumbling brick chimneys, so all that was left was near ruins near the small town. I stopped by that day to see if I perhaps could find a clue about my ancestors - a detail that would be difficult to discern, given the maltreatment of the property itself.