by Christopher Jug George
I stared at the towering sunset when all the hope in the world still existed about us. Twelve-hundred miles apart, we texted throughout the afternoon and evening. The inevitable and the want. (Ping) I know you will be here someday with me. (Ping) I will be. It may have been our penultimate holiday. But the robots must have turned against us, or the spaceships descended and only took you. Perhaps you joined a circus or one of us got swept off a talent show stage with a black cane followed by a man with a broom.
Thanksgiving was so warm that year, nieces, nephews, and dogs strewed about the green and brown grass of the front yard. We all were in short sleeves looking at that orange glow behind the neighbor’s house. A large orb of light sitting in their backyard, tangible, as if we could touch it. I still gaze at that sunset from afar while I continually fail to get to other worlds to see what dusk is like there.