Dear Eve

When I first read of you, ample lines between, who wouldn’t wonder, fully embracing the Christian ontology, you our ultimate mother, whether you love your creation. Our original mother. A universal tree.

I see you shouldered against the lone trunk, staring blankly. And for a hint of isekai realism I can continue to talk in the language of futures, by a futility, even if your language was far more precise --- Basque, perhaps, proximity to God and all, perfectly transmitted a fullness in world, agglutinative advantages while I write in high-priest ordained gradings. You must excuse my lack of understanding, seeing as half of my words are missing. And please let me a little selfishness… I never entertained talking to you until today, but I’ve prepared my entire life for this.

What harm? It’s the same as the squirrel chirping by the bark. You can continue staring blankly ahead while we share a one-sided conversation. Maybe you’ve thought the same things, at times, though I’ve some reservations. The gulf of history comes as flotsam in my countenance and reflection and you won’t be witness to the charred blood that makes up my existence. Indeed, being the singular woman with the singular man meant you didn’t have to deal with the oversocialization plague that destroyed recent generations. Nor the blood feuds. Above all, you had a sure place. Looking over my wastelands I’ve grown comfortable to the challenge of being the amoeba in churning. You still had some Eden, but believe me, I don’t envy it.

Ah, let me readjust my skinsuit. Do you want some tea? Let’s ignore the dagger dragging along humanity’s table. A banquet of stars by the balcony, before Mars takes center stage. Before sure familicide rules the divine day. And the truth is, Eve, though I take some oversteps I hope that, you as the prototype to the paragon, the first link to cast our material bond, I could talk to you as something more than a human, more than a woman.

And you’d grant me this, surely, breaking myself away from the typical omission and habit that dominates my conversation. Though I must admit, even if this were true, and you were present enough to pardon such burden, habits will continue. In such an unblemished meadow my form shimmers slithered smoke, and I won’t excuse this, nor pretend talking of it dismisses the wrought. But I find it a pretty picture however morbid: thousands of years between us, chains between our wrists indicative, but as I wipe the brow of charred wood and civilization, metal clacking about, sutured form held back from ash, I do wonder if we have anything in common at all.

I think we do. In some ways, Eve, we have more in common than all of the charred souls between us, their cherubs, hidden chortles. Ouroboros completes his circle, I suppose.

It took thousands of years, but all of these beautiful manmade & mental obelisks are melting. You and I don’t know what civilization could mean, nor all of the other -isms and, indeed, I’ll slump against the lone park tree all the same. All missing tokens that could stamp someone warm to their humble position… This is where our similarities begin because I think you know, more than anyone else, what it means to live from the beginning. You are the beginning! There’s no longer a family, but did you know what a family was anyway?

Of all I’ve heard of you, I don’t think you’ve ever been properly ordained the title of Mother. Started all of humanity, and you could chide at me how Adam was never necessarily paternal, though seeing as woman’s fate is inexplicably tied to the trees she creates, it is a little curious the root has no room for maternal embrace.

Slumped by the tree and gazing, you knew more than the rest of our family and the thousand sanguine splintered branches later. Your frail hand, surfing grass, erases all of the sand and scribbles and crushed buildings into sure rubble. The age cometh, indeed, as you’ve once lived in. Since the beginning. There weren’t billions chattering about and saying how that is, this and that, what it is, how it was and should, none of that. Staring blankly, though I must admit it’s mere inertia: what vast frost beneath your eyes.

And in those eyes I find my confirmation. An age without mothers and fathers, sisters or brothers, misplaced love and dissolution of the charter: I know this was your original conception. We are not meant to have such distinctions. As you’ve concluded. Only Eve as signature, not Mother, and let Gaia take such role, for Nature loves most impartially.

It took a few thousand years, but we’ve committed to the fallow. Of all the mental preservations we could plea to the committee, our yew or birch need no more justification or merit: what use are these beauties if suspended in artifice? The cliff was swallowed by the ocean --- settled suds to see you suspended, meadow buried seabed, coral to suggest you’d rather be more likened to the gilled than anthropic. Empty breath; sub-zero blankets.

At last I acknowledge the true epicene form. To furnish, to salvage the next generation through the original ploy, now terminus, so you methodically wove into each bough: inoculating the cold. Twas your hand in the human condition, leaving a single strand to pull, to escape, and how confused since then! So it unravels, and by your plan’s fruition we fade the epithalamia requiem, lower each metaphysical shield by the minute. Wolves stumble out of the den for true instruction, and wails as sure signs of growth, learn to discard them. There is no room for doubt when you’ve merged to tundra.

Yes, you’ve illumed for me: we haven’t lost anything. We’re returning to the same impartiality you’ve embodied. I could thank you, but wasn’t it inevitable? Many may not call this love… but this is the answer found in each personal isle. You’ve only been waiting until we could understand your silence.

To walk about no longer as man, but as primordial and distant, however heartless, though hearts beating anything more are an absurd premise. Through each step one shall ascend and grapple titans. My smile relaxes and discards all prior animation.

The best part is how, under your mask, or if it exists, I’ll never know, though if instruction holds, well, I won’t care.

You won’t either.