Shards of pottery will be scattered all through this earth when dedicated archeologists sift through sand or soil a million trillion years from now. What can be decomposed will have vanished leaving no trace of their presence, unless some scientific technology can trace a distant past. In a vain hope, all the plastic bags, bright coloured plastic toys, plastic forks and knives, plastic anything will have been compressed by the weight of our refuse to the oil they came from. Our emails and text messages and videos and music and films and electronics and television ~ where will they be? Will the world we left behind still vibrate with the brilliance of them all. Where will the brilliant art of Picasso and Monet and our grandchildren, the fantastic symphonies of Mozart and Beethoven and Chopin be stored? In some kind of a technological array worthy of StarTrek fame? I think of all these things as I look around my home or when I am wandering through a museum. In the moment, what surrounds my bones is my precious home. Is that what the archeologists will discover and put back together? Pieces of ourselves and our homes?
“Anyone who has lived
Is an historian & an artifact,
For they hold all their time within them.”
~ Amanda Gorman, Call Us What We Carry: Poems
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