Smokey Robinson is singing in the background, as I stare at the deserted city streets that make up my post-apocalyptic world.
“People say I’m the life of the party. . .”
The dead bodies have decomposed and now the dogs are eating what’s left of their owners.
“. . .cause I tell a joke or two.”
The houses are all but gone, the only evidence that even shows they existed are the scattered rubble peppered with dolls and toys because it was Christmas in America when they struck.
“Although I might be laughing loud and hearty. . .”
I’m not crying. I’m just remembering what was going on yesterday, Christmas Eve, when I was drinking egg nog and talking to my relatives about politics. I myself had always bore a feeling of dread toward what was on the news, but to others it must have seemed like a fleeting thought, no different than a passing cloud.
“. . .deep inside I’m blue.”
My whole world is dead now. My family is dead, my house is gone, my friends are all dead. Even my dog is dead. Incinerated, as if it were all nothing.
“So take a good look at my face. . .”
I don’t really regret anything, having done the best I could with the tools I had. I just wish other people had listened to what I had to say when I said it. But then again, maybe it wasn’t worth the time and effort on my part. After all, a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a tsunami half way around the world. That’s what my English teacher told me, but he’s probably dead too.
“. . .you see my smile looks out of place.”
I remember Rose and how beautiful she was. I wish I could’ve seen her face, even for just a moment. She had high, rosy cheek bones and a cute little upturned nose, flaming red hair and green eyes. It was her smile though that made me want to kiss her. If I were going to marry one person, it would’ve been her.
“If you look closer it’s easy to trace. . .”
Where is the music coming from? What is it doing in my world? This world that should be dead; deserted of all things that are good and enjoyable. Why is Smokey Robinson playing at this moment? Why is there nothing to do but stand here listening to this song, trying to make sense of what has just happened. Why can’t the music die along with everything else?
“. . .the tracks of my tears.”
I wish I had a gun. Better to die than live like this. But the music has stopped and there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do. Has anything really changed? Maybe it is me who has changed. I wish I knew.