“You know, I read once that if you placed the entire timeline of the universe into a single calendar year, humans would show up on December 31st at 11 PM,” I say. “I’m paraphrasing, but you get the picture.”
His lips flatten. He’s engrossed by the architects digging in the dirt with all of their fancy tools and brushes.
“Isn’t it crazy when you think about how inconsequential we are? As a species, we’re still so new and all these living, breathing creatures existed millions and millions of years ago. It blows my mind, really. Kind of makes me awestruck and depressed at the same time,” I say.
“Depressed?” He turns to me.
“Well, not clinically depressed, but almost kind of sad … because it makes me feel like someday maybe millions of years from now, we’re all probably going to be extinct. Just a bunch of fossils in the ground, no legacies to leave behind, no one to tell our stories.”
“I still don’t see how that’s a sad thing. Being extinct. If we’re dead, we’re not going to be around to care,” he says. “And these dinosaurs and whatnot have left a legacy of fossil fuels, if you want to put it that way. They didn’t live and die for nothing.”
“I guess, but I just think people are always so fixated on their problems all the time, but if they could just look at the big picture—that someday they’re just going to be a pile of bones in a mound of dirt—maybe they’d worry a little less? Live a little more? Try to contribute to society or leave the world a little bit better than they found it?”
“You’re such an idealist.” He hooks his arm around me, which marks the second time today, and my heart does the tiniest flutter without so much as asking for permission.
We spend the next couple of hours touring the garden and a few more dig sites before stopping at the lake pit.
Hot bubbling asphalt glugs behind us as we stand next to a bunch of fake animals pretending to play in the pit.
“What do you think it’d be like if we went extinct and some future species found our bones and turned us into robotic models and placed us on display?” I ask as we watch the bubbles float to the surface and pop.
“Probably about how you’d expect.” He clears his throat, glancing down at me, and I’d love to know what he’s thinking about.
“You know, my grandma in the sixties, all she wanted was to have a legacy, to be remembered forever. People were always comparing her to Marilyn Monroe, especially after Marilyn died, and my grandma would get so upset because unless you die young and your beauty is immortalized, you’ve got nothing to leave behind but your good deeds. But if you’re simply known for your beauty, no one really cares if you’re feeding orphans and adopting shelter dogs or paying for vaccines in third world nations. She wants to be remembered for her philanthropy, but anytime someone hears the name Gloria Claiborne, all they associate her with is old Hollywood glamour or that white bikini.”
“Sounds like she needs a good PR team.”
I roll my eyes. “Does it really count if you have to publicize it? It’s like those people who donate money to places so they can get their names on a plaque on the wall as a “Gold Star Donor” or whatever the stupid name is.”
“Giving is giving.”
“Unless you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. Some people give for others. Some people give for themselves.”
“It’s not really our place to judge other people’s reasons for giving,” he says, words terse.
“Yeah, well, you haven’t met some of the elitist assholes who hang out with my parents and brag about how much money they donated to their kids’ schools. One jerkoff donated a hundred grand so he could have his kid’s name painted on some mural on the playground.”
“It’s their money,” he says. “They can spend it how they want.”
“Stop making me sound like an asshole,” I say. “I’m just being honest. This is a judgement-free zone. You can’t judge me for judging other people.”
“Seems a little hypocritical.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Okay. I take back everything I said. Everyone who ever donates a single dollar to a single cause is a selfless saint.”
Isaiah laughs. At me. “Why are you getting so worked up? This is such a dumb conversation to have. Who the hell cares who donates to what and why?”
Drawing in a deep breath, I let it go, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t know. You’re right. It’s dumb.”
He slips his arm over my shoulder—again—and gives me a side hug. “You ever heard of the phrase ‘stay in your own lane’?”
“No?”
“It means mind your own. Don’t worry about what anyone else is doing,” he says. “Trust me, it’s the only way to live. Worry about yourself. Forget the rest.”