June 2095. The dawn of the Twenty-second century approaches, and my fires grow dimmer daily. The world is entering a new century, and I'll soon walk where there is no space and time. I feel the tether to this earthly realm fraying. Weighted with feelings of prostration, the taste of my mortality lingers in the air.
The nostalgic past has reawakened my mind, tugging at my consciousness like a vivid tapestry of memories. I was compelled to inventory every detail of my life, laying bare the essence of my existence for others to scavenge through the wreckage; I discovered something profound. Amidst the minutiae, hidden and almost forgotten, lay a treasure worthy of inheritance. It's a part of me I'm not quite ready to let go, a fragment yearning to be passed on, like an old torch prepared to find a new bearer—a fragment of my identity that had survived the relentless march of time and erosion.
My Grandson Cole unearthed a journal from a dusty old chest where things of the past go to die. The cover is cracked and delicate, with leather that was once vibrant but is now faded. A relic buried in dust and decay. As he carefully opened it, the pages crackled like autumn leaves underfoot. I recognized my awful handwriting scrawling across the decomposing paper, a testament to a long time past. My vision degenerates more by the second, but I can still see my Grandson's youthful curiosity as he delved into the mysteries of the faded ink.
The primitive animals inside us make us hoarders of momentary riches and delusional to think we should be kings. At my age, you begin to change the scales of measurement as it tips away from gold and begin to favor knowledge. Objects born and rooted in sentiment and memory run long in the race but get surpassed by usefulness. The Kingly trinkets get reduced to artifacts that lose their way to forgotten corners of our house, collecting dust. Shiny treasures gained are never as rewarding as those given away. Cole has found such a piece, and though he doesn't yet understand its weight, he's holding a part of me.
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know?" I murmur, a playful gleam in my weary eyes. Cole snaps the journal shut as if caught red-handed. A guilty grin spreads across his face.
"I was just looking," he replies, voice soft, with the sheepish innocence only youth can summon.
Earlier, I watched, bitterly amused, as the so-called "loved ones" circled like vultures, their words sweetened by the thin glaze of politeness that cracked every time a piece of inheritance was mentioned. Familial blood and time-worn friendships turned before my eyes into rats fighting for scraps in the rubbish heap. The jewelry, the antique furniture, the modest wealth I had gathered over a lifetime—suddenly became tokens of unearned devotion. I once thought the kindnesses offered to me were acts of love, tokens freely given. But in that cold house, I felt their affection sour into something mercenary, each favor a calculated scheme.
I was forced to ask myself uncomfortable questions. What, indeed, is inheritance? What are the things we should pass on? How do we want to be remembered when we pass into shadow and beyond any ability to influence life? Is it the trinkets we leave behind, or something more profound, intangible—a trace of ourselves embedded in the lives we've touched? When we step beyond the veil, do we leave a mark in the minds of those left behind, or are we just forgotten in the shadow of their desires? Should our legacy matter at all to the world or just to the hearts that held us close? Or are they even just fellow travelers, passing strangers whose lives brush ours only briefly before we're absorbed back into the collective ocean of the timeless universe? These questions lay heavy like stones crushing my sternum.
Birth and death are the boundaries of what we call life, and what was before and after is left to our dreams. The infinite worlds are but the territory of the souls' imagination and the sacred scrolls of the prophets. Religions and philosophers have the arrogance to proclaim answers, but we are only left to choose what will imbue comfort. Gods may lay battle and claim to those realms, and mortals can persuade with sweet mouths what we may find outside the margins of life. The harvest of our deeds and beliefs only is reaped in the great beyond. Our choices may forge paths, but each road inevitably leads to the same end, and our concerns become relics for others to inherit and dissect if they choose to at all.
In a sense, we're all inheritors of the world we're born into. None of us chooses the landscape we're handed—the highs and lows, the dark depths we're forced to claw our way out of, or the struggles that define us. All we can do is push onward, swim upward through the abyss, and hope to reach a surface where we can breathe freely, even if only for a moment.
Cole, my grandson, is caught in the bloom of youth, a gangly boy of fifteen with long, dark hair always in his eyes—a casual vanity he attends to with the habitual flick of a wrist, brushing his hair back to reveal his restless gaze. Ah, youth: the age of displays and self-adornment. Even as so-called superior beings, we preen and perform, not unlike peacocks in courtship. For him, it's a matter of attracting, of showing the world who he is and hoping it draws others close. I understand the impulse. Once, I was the same.
But now, old snake as I am, I have no such concerns. I'm far beyond the need for adornment or impression. I've shed all those old skins; the one I wear now is my last. I care little for the opinions of others, and I'm well aware of the flies hovering around me, drawn by the scent of my rotting carcass.
Cole and I were in the attic, where he had followed me in my wanderings. Cole sat with me, my quiet shadow, staring at my journal. Meanwhile, the rest of my kin prowled the house below, moving like sharks lurking beneath the surface. They murmured among themselves, perhaps imagining where they'd place this vase or that painting.
Not long ago, a decision had been made about my future, which somehow had everything to do with me, yet it felt like I'd had no say in it. My oldest son, Joe, had offered, with a strained sort of kindness, to take me in. The doctors—grim-faced, with their clipped words and tired eyes—had said it was best for someone in "my condition." It was too risky, they claimed, for me to live alone. They spoke in vague terms, wielding phrases like "quality of life" and "monitoring my health" as if they could soften the bluntness of their prognosis. I'd had no objections to my independence, no concern over my health. But here I was, already being pushed along a path I'd never agreed to tread.
I felt fine, yet to them, I was like a clock running down, ticking closer to an end. They seemed more invested than I was. Their worry felt like a thin veil over their genuine concerns—a hunger for closure, finality, and answers to questions about their lives after I was gone. They seemed to watch me as one might watch produce wilting on the grocery store shelf, waiting for the day they could clear it away without guilt. Perhaps my physical presence had become inconvenient, a reminder of the effort it would take to look after me.
"Cole," I said, watching him toy with the journal, "you're the only one spending time with me rather than making a mental checklist of what they want to claim when I'm gone."
He gave me a sheepish smile. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in some of it."
"At least you're honest about it." I chuckled, admiring his candor. "What if I told you I had something different in mind to pass on to you?"
His brow furrowed. "Different? Like… what?"
"Let the goblins downstairs have their trinkets. I'm talking about passing on something precious—knowledge, wisdom, experience. Maybe something special," I tried to explain, choosing my words carefully.
Cole laughed a little, giving me that same old stubborn look. "I mean, I'm okay with useless possessions. Money wouldn't hurt, either."
"Don't worry; you'll get those things, too. They have their place. But I can pass on something that will last far longer than silverware or a few dollar bills."
Cole shook his head, still not quite catching my drift. "I don't think I follow, Grandma."
"What is truly worth inheriting?" I asked, almost to myself. "What will matter to you twenty, thirty years from now? What can I leave behind that will never lose its value?"
He squinted, cautious like I was testing him. "Is this a trick question?"
"No, I'm just… thinking out loud." I paused, gathering my thoughts. After a moment, I pointed to the worn journal in his hands. "You know, I was around your age when I started writing in that. I was wiry, a little spitfire of a girl, full of vinegar and questions."
Cole smirked. "So you were a pain in the…"
"Don't even think about finishing that sentence if you want to see tomorrow," I cut him off, glaring before softening with a laugh. "Yes, I was a pain. But isn't every young person in their way?"
He flipped through the journal, eyeing it skeptically. "So… what's in here, exactly? Secret boyfriends and your most scandalous crushes?"
"No, nothing quite that exciting." I snorted. "My 'escapades' were barely worth a page. I wrote it on a camping trip to the Boundary Waters with my grandpa, your Great-Grandpa Harry. I thought I'd be bored out of my mind, so I brought a notebook to jot down whatever nonsense came to me. My penmanship was as atrocious then as it is now—probably more so. Wouldn't surprise me if your generation finds that sort of thing boring."
"Oh, yes. Quite dull," Cole said, feigning a cough to cover his sarcasm.
I raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"
"I said yes, I'd be quite interested." He tied to cover with a pathetic fake cough.
"Nice try." I laughed, shaking my head. "But thanks for pretending, anyway. You know, it's funny. Elders used to be the most respected people in the family, in the whole community, really. Now we're just… birthday cards with money stuffed in them. No one listens to what we have to say. Not that it's always a bad thing."
Cole shrugged. "No one listens to what young people say, either."
"Maybe if we put our voices together, they'll have to listen," I said, sharing a small smile with him.
He tilted his head, genuinely curious for once. "You mentioned the Boundary Waters. What's that?"
I settled back, glad he'd asked. "The Boundary Waters… Well, it's a sprawling area of wilderness along the border of Minnesota and Canada. Lakes and rivers winding through miles of untouched forest. Not a road, house, or phone signal for miles. Just the sounds of the water and the wildlife. It's one of the few places where you can feel like you're stepping out of time. It's something that you can't fully understand unless you're there. It is raw nature and beauty."
"Camping? Like… outside?" Cole asked, looking downright horrified.
"Oh, yes. Terrifying," I replied, layering on as much sarcasm as my old bones would allow. "Don't worry, just the ramblings of an old dog barking at the moon. I know your gadgets and screens are thrilling and all, but the Boundary Waters are out there in the real world, a place where you can experience an adventure that doesn't require a battery or a Wi-Fi signal."
The dusty attic floor creaked beneath me as I shuffled closer to the journal, my bones mimicking the same mournful sound. Cole perched on an old chest, a relic itself, and I leaned on my cane, carefully lowering myself into a chair that had probably been around longer than I had. Somewhere below, I could hear muffled voices and clinking sounds from the garage as the others pecked through my things like vultures picking over a carcass.
It all had a rotten scent to me now, or was that just the smell of death steaming off me? My flesh may still cling to these old bones, and sunlight may still touch this "moving corpse" of mine, but the doctors had all but counted the days until my light would dim. Let them dig through the remains and ashes of my earthly self as my mind is already preparing for the eternal if it's willing to take in this weary traveler.
I looked over at Cole, who was flipping idly through the journal's pages. "You know the land and waters of the region run thick in your veins. Your ancestors did more than just tame the woods around there. It became a part of their being."
Cole looked up, brow raised. "I assume you're talking about the part of my heritage from Grandpa's side and not your Nordic roots?"
I laughed at his sharpness, even though he hadn't meant to be so blunt. "Yes, smart aleck, I'm talking about your grandfather's Ojibwe lineage. That's the problem, Cole. People think of their heritage as stories on a page, something quaint or abstract. But it's more than that—it's a living thing, woven into you whether you feel it or not."
"Your Grandfather left you more than just genetics as part of your legacy," I explained. "His Anishinaabe heritage is also your heritage, passed down through generations. That legacy is in the Boundary Waters' rocks, trees, and rivers. There are even paintings on stones there, marking the presence of our ancestors."
Cole shifted uncomfortably as though the weight of a history he'd never fully understood was pressing down on him. "I don't even know what my heritage is. I'm just… me. People look at my skin and see me as an 'Indian,' but I've got European roots, too, thanks to you, Grandma. I don't want to be anything but myself. It's the world that wants to assign a definition to me."
"You're wise not to want to be bound by expectations, Cole. But it would be a mistake to forget where you come from completely. Whether we want it or not, family history will always be in our blood."
"Do any of us have a choice, though? Society won't let us forget our 'place,' no matter how free our minds might be. It's all tied up in things we didn't choose but inherit."
"We must be free of any definition, even of ourselves. We must be unmolded clay if we are to find any balance. We have to be ruthlessly honest and free of prejudice and assumptions. Doubts and fears will create enough barriers that we need to avoid creating more obstacles. It is better to be like a stream coming down from the mountain. It nourishes all as it passes but is free from form. It is only what it needs to be in the moment."
"Yeah, sounds like a good bumper sticker, Grandma," Cole muttered, a glint of humor in his eye.
"Wisdom doesn't need a fancy package, Cole," I replied. "It's not hard to find the truth; it's in choosing to follow it, even when it's difficult, that we struggle. The right path is often the simplest one, yet somehow, we humans make it so complicated." I looked at him with a grin. "I don't expect you to conquer the world, though. Just try to make the most of your piece of it."
"I'm just trying to exist, not conquer the world," Cole said, trying to bring the conversation back down to earth.
"Yes, of course. Forgive my musings and the ramblings of a tired old mind."
"Whatever you say, Grandma."
"Cole, do you like adventure, real adventure?" I asked.
"I do. I hate to ask why you asked."
"I haven't been on a real adventure in years. Your finding this journal of mine has got me thinking about how I'd like to see the great wilderness one last time. I need an accomplice, though, to bust out of jail. Bend all the rules they got for me around here. You and I are similar, Cole. People closest to us think we need looking after. They're moving me into a facility "for care," they call it. It's to free them from having to care for me themselves. You're a teenager, and so no one takes you seriously."
"I'm not sure what you're getting, Grandma. Does this mean I can read your journal?"
"You can, but I've got a better idea. How about you experience it? I've got dodgy knees and an even worse predisposition, so a trip to The Boundary Waters is out for us, I'm afraid. We can go on a different adventure. We can head for the North shores of Lake Superior. What do you say?"
His eyes went wide. "Are we allowed?"
"Never wait for permission because people will always say no."
"But… we'll get in trouble."
"Would that be so bad?"
He chuckled nervously, unsure if I was serious. "You're a bad influence, Grandma. I'm already in enough trouble."
"So what's a little more? Besides, if we ask, they'll only come up with reasons we shouldn't go. And what good are reasons, anyway?"
"You do know there are bugs up there, right?"
"Are you afraid of bugs? I'll have my cane ready to whack them."
"Whack them? How big are the bugs up there?"
"They're like birds," I said with a chuckle.
"Birds?".
"I'm joking."
Cole grimaced, but I caught the flicker of a smile. "This all sounds… kind of insane, Grandma."
"All the best ideas are a little insane," I said with a wink.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feigning reluctance, but I could tell his curiosity was getting the better of him. "How long were you thinking?"
"A weekend, a few days, however long it takes."
"My parents would call the cops if I just left."
"So what? I'm too old to jail, and you're too young. A little chaos never hurt anyone."
He snorted, looking exasperated but intrigued. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"
I nodded, feeling a surge of life I hadn't felt in years. "Look at it this way—you'll have an outrageous story to tell your friends. 'My grandma kidnapped me on an adventure over the summer.' Imagine the looks on their faces."
He laughed despite himself, but I could tell he was trying to keep his cool. "This sounds like one of those things you'd hear about on the news. 'Missing grandma and grandson found dead in the woods.'"
"Then I guess it'll make for a good headline," I teased. "Don't think about it too hard. Just say yes."
"Said the people right before they all died."
"We won't die. At least, I don't think."
"That's awesome, really reassuring. I must be as mad as you for even considering this."
"Well, I am your Grandma, so consider it just one more thing you inherited from me."
I look at my Grandson Cole, and I see the future paths. I see how we are made for our time and that the world shall always grow beyond us. The natural world has been here for millions of years, and it never lingers or gets nostalgic for the past. It is constantly in the moment. We humans are vain and want to leave a mark of remembrance. To live big enough for the world to notice. Each generation has its advances and stagnations.
There must be a reason for us to desire accomplishments in the microcosm of life. Yet most people live and die and have little impact on the world. Passing things off to the next generation and keeping the machine going is our sole purpose.