Crossing the Hunger Stones

Will we remember the warnings we leave behind?

Photo by Steven Erixon on Unsplash

I run my hand across the black stone, feel the writing there, ten thousand lifetimes old. In the rivers, we plant hunger stones, warnings for our children’s children that famine is soon to come. I wonder if these ancient obelisks, impenetrable, are hungers stones as well.

I pat Dova on the head, and she smiles up at me, blue eyes and golden curls. “Daddy?”

“Yes, love?”

“Will we ever go home?”

The stones ahead of us are like a fence, foreboding. But, what comes behind is worse. “Someday,” I say, and do not meet her eyes.

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