The Song at the End of the Universe
"And then, we didn’t."
The first problem was that the world was ending. Probably the universe too but there was no way for us to know. The outcome would’ve been about the same anyways.
The second problem was that it was annoyingly warm, but admittedly I don’t think that mattered much after the first problem.
The Armagaon was a lot more pretty than I expected. I had imagined a few explosions and a few screams. A few horsemen and a few dead dreams. Sky beams or alien ships, maybe a giant sized monster or blood running in streams.
Instead the sky just changed to a beautiful gradient of every color on the wheel. You kinda just knew it was all over. Like a deep sense in the bottom of your bones. The birds took to the sky to fly one more time. The racoons raided the trash cans, gouging on every scrap. The cats curled up next to each other and went to sleep. Even the trees seemed to know, and they didn't care about anything big for squat.
It was announced that we had about 8 minutes left. Not sure how the scientists figured it out, but I guess they needed something to measure. My neighbors thought that measuring it was stupid. But I understood. I’m an accountant.
It was the violin that got me. It was played by a homeless man at the end of the street. He was in his usual spot. I had been ignoring his playing very comfortably for years, but today I found myself very interested in it.
Because now, it was beyond clear that he wasn’t playing for paper. He wasn’t playing for his meal that night or for fame, playing for an audience or to break his chains. He was just happy to see the sky and was playing it a song.
I was jealous of him because I realized I wasn’t sure what I’d do with that time. Call my wife? Or maybe my mom? Tell my son I love him or my dog I’d see him in the next life? Should I file my taxes? The IRS always seemed to care. Would God give a damn? Should I pray and pray that he is fair? Should I write down a pretty thought? A final word? A last breath? Comb my hair? Make sure I look good when I’m dead?
I’d have been very embarrassed having spent my last 8 minutes doing nothing. So I walked up next to the homeless man and started tapping on a trash can lid. He smiled at me, and for once I didn’t avert my eyes. A few neighbors gathered around us. Some had guitars, others had pots and pans, and the few talented brought their gifted voices.
My tapping turned to banging. My neighbors started playing, banging, and singing. None of us were on beat. Everyone was playing a different song. Some harmonized with each other. Others very much didn’t. But it seemed to work out in the end. It was beautiful in the way that it wasn’t.
Our song carried far past us. I could hear distant neighborhoods joining in the celebration. I’m pretty sure it was a celebration. Not sure of what, the world was ending after all. But it sure beat moping.
Our song was beautiful, it was ugly. It was kind and cruel. Long and terse. Tragic and lamentable. The sky didn’t give a damn but we did. For those last 8 minutes we sat and played our hearts out.
And then, we didn’t.