The End — The voice as the final artifact

I hope death feels like— the moment the camera is turned around. The moment the moon stops pretending to be an image. The moment the tree releases the pressure of a thousand vanished hands. The moment the river reaches the sea and discovers that nothing was ever lost, only carried beyond the range of our instruments. I hope death feels like my cat's two crossed eyes finally agreeing on a single point. Not heaven. Not an answer. Just the end of having to stand outside myself to see whether I am real. I hope the machine forgets my face. I hope the tree remembers my weight. I hope the girls go home. I hope our names are carried on the wind. I hope the moon returns to being the moon. I hope the photograph is finally allowed to be only paper. And if the Earth remembers everything— let it remember this: We were frightened. We made images. We mistook the images for ourselves. We searched the sky for someone who could see us without the interference of being human. All the while, the cat was sitting beside us, her eyes crossed, her body warm, looking at the same impossible world. We were not alone. We were simply looking in different directions.