What goes on above lasts years, centuries. Decisions
that will remain inked in me for longer. But there are few
who choose to take as much time to ponder the impact
as she does.
She knows of all the pollution I have swallowed, the
limbs I have lost, and the ignorance that has cost
me. But I do not resent, for I am antediluvian,
but I weep
and I wonder
and I wait. For those like her to turn my tides.
I watch her as she prepares to trek on her Glaswegian dream, how
she swallows down her impatience and instead looks out
to where blue meets blue, while making me promises.
She promises to hike and leave no trace.
She promises to make her footprints shallow and minimal in my soil.
She promises to participate in trends of recycling and reusing.
She questions and inquires on lucrative trades.
Four wheels for two legs.
Mass-produced for locally made.
Heedless waste for sustainable consumption.
Her solutions, however great, are not foolproof, and for that
she apologizes. I feel her frown at the daunting ‘8157’;
the number of kilometers she will be flying, and the
unavoidable carbon emissions that will follow.
But I do not resent.
I know she will travel slow. Embrace the breadth of green and blue.
And she will do what she can with the help of resources from
those like the UN’s Sustainable Development crew.
I am comforted in her abilities, and more so
by the impact she’ll make beyond her time abroad.
For she is a writer. A crafter of words and maker of metaphors.
That is, after all, a contributing factor to her destination.
She will improve, and learn, and become a new person upon her return.
A developed artist that finds melodies in the letters when strung together,
an architect with a pen. It wasn’t long ago that a professor of her’s
taught her that “it is as English students, writers, that we are best able to
understand and do something about the climate crisis”.
She considers this thesis with heart and pious.
She considers herself responsible, able, worthy
of this title, “writer”.
I look up at her, haloed in my sister’s light like a perfect pitch
cut out, and wait patiently for when her words become primed
to be read and change minds. So when my leaves turn
shades of orange and brown,
and begin to fall down with the angels and the rain,
I will know that she has begun her journey.
For I am mother, I am green, and I am hopeful that
with every generation there will be more
like her to be made—dreamers, writers, and combatants of eco-negligence—
whom will make me promises and give me aid.
Resources:
1. Burnham, Clint. “Canadian Literatures.” English 355, Spring 2025, Simon Fraser University.
2. https://sdgs.un.org/goals
3. www.sustainabletourismnetwork.ie/tourism-business-guide-un-sdgs-aligning-travel-sustainability/
