Thrasher's Call

Our family tree still holds this old tradition: we plot a course of days, with living breath, until, in seasons of varying fruition, we turn again to earth, interred to death.

It’s been a thing we do for countless years, ever since our forebears grabbed the fruit and planted seeds of entropy, with tears to water cursed trees’ outstretching roots.

I recall, one year, the firstborn of my brothers took it on himself to come and mend this rot at roots, dig up, and plant another tree of life – and, let me tell you, friend: sometimes the best thing traditions do is end.