The Collapse CLXV: A Sweater Unraveling

 09 September 20XX +1

My Dear Lucilius:

I write this to you in the light of evening that is starting to wane.

The “vote” – I call it a vote, it was much more of a dis-spirited discussion – concluded not an hour ago.

We held it in the old storefront that we had Church in and the Fourth of July in over a year ago, one of the slowly declining store fronts from 80 years ago when this was a fully functioning town instead of the drive through location that it has become. The belief, I assume, was that by having a large space it would encourage people to attend.

The population hereabouts has always been a bit of a contentious discussion. The “official” numbers peg it right around 100 souls, plus those that live farther out in homesteads or ranches but are closer to here than anywhere else; the river that crosses Birch Creek is likely the “border” to the North and East and the other border runs somewhere between the edge of town and the creek that exists beyond it, a fluid border to the town that lies beyond, one of the biggest locally.

Of those 100 old souls that may or may not be around, a scant 30 were present.

Part of it makes sense of course: no use bringing children to an event that would make no sense or more than one from a household in some cases. Still, I suspect Young Xerxes and those who organized the thing had higher hopes.

The question was put to those in attendance: would we continue to stick with Kentucky City, knowing that we would likely have to support them at some point – as they would us - or would we, as Little City, strike out on our own?

Someone from the back of the room asked about the cities beyond us, all the way to the state highway, those that the Colonel and the Leftenant had gone on to. No idea, came the response from Young Xerxes. Yes, someone had been sent there and would likely be back tomorrow with information, but it would be good to have a decision for them when they came. And no matter what their decision was, ultimately we had to make our own.

A gentleman in the back stood up, one that could in no wise be other than one of the ranches in the area. He spoke for all of them hereabouts, he said. They were fine staying in association, but had no intention of marching to any sort of fight. They had enough problems of their own trying to get through the Winter; taking on another charity – the word he used – was beyond their capacity.

Others began to speak up. A few said they were going to stay with friends or relatives out of Birch (likely to the aforementioned ranches and outlying houses); the idea of being here in the Winter effectively alone was too much; best of luck to those that stayed. At least one was of the opinion that Birch should pull a Little City and go their own way – which was largely talked down, as we did not have near the resources or natural protection of that town.

Most sat, like me, remaining silent.

Young Xerxes made an impassioned plea, pointing out that there was strength in numbers and support. Yes, it likely entailed some support of other towns – but those other towns would be in the same position to support us. Our close neighbors, he said, were our best chance to make it to Spring.

In the end, there was not so much of a vote as a tired agreement – those that said they were leaving obviously did not really matter at that point, and those outside of town had little say. The motion “passed”, if one can call less of a roll call vote and more of a general sense.

Walking back to his house, Young Xerxes was clearly distressed. It makes a certain sense: he was very plugged into this community and these people and for all intents appeared that it was slowly falling apart. He had no count of how many would leave, he said, but it could be as much as 25% - which would make the town even emptier and even more vulnerable.

I walked with him in silence back to his house, listen to the sadness in his voice. I did not really have words, or at least words that would likely be of any use: what does one say in the face of understandable self-interest?

Sitting here writing the last words in the evening light before it goes dim, I feel more and more like we are a sweater, slowly unraveling. Can the thing be knit back together?

A sort of bland indifference is what we can seem to muster, Lucilius; we will see if that will be enough.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca