The Collapse CCV: Mementos

13 December 20XX +1

My Dear Lucilius:

The Visitor In The Snow has caused, perhaps unsurprisingly, a flurry of activity in our snow packed town (no puns intended, but gladly accepted). Beyond just this digging out and checking on people, the biggest point of conversation as I walked from house to house – even with our Erstwhile Neighbors – was “Who was he? Where did he come from?”

To the first I have an answer. To the second, I still only have mysteries.

The second point first: I cannot tell you anything about where he came from, at least around here. Young Xerxes sent people out on sweeps around the various parts of Birch, out even to the former school. There was nothing: no tracks, no other bodies (of people, anyway), no signs. Two young men actually made it all the way to the ranch at the base of the tall him that dominates our southern landscape; they, also, had no idea and had not seen anyone.

Only the tracks coming out of the West remained.

Young Xerxes and I walked them as far as we could, until it became apparent that blowing snow had erased them. If there was a point where he came onto the road, that was not revealed as well. At some point the indentations continued to grow shallower and shallower until they simply disappeared and it was nothing but us and gentle plains of snow that whirled as snow devils created themselves in sparkling circles and then died.

To the first question, his name was J.

I have his ID in front of me as I write. J. Aged 30, judging from the birth date on his driver’s license, which is from a state (A former state? Are there any states at all anymore?) several states away from here. His height (5’ 10”) and his physical appearance (Hair: Brown; Eyes: Blue) look back at me from the picture.

His face is clean shaven and far heavier looking that than the frozen face that greeted us yesterday. He has that awkward smile that so many of us have for such official pictures: “Smile”, they say. We most often look either grim or goofy.

The other contents of the pocket on the back of his cell phone was generally unremarkable: a credit card and bank card to financial institutions I am sure no longer exist, a roadside assistance card long expired, a series of old fortunes from fortune cookies: “Changes are in your near future” read one that seemed rather new.

And in one pocket, a laminated picture.

It is clearly him. It is Summer. He looks happy, sitting on a boat on blue waters. The rod in his hands make it look like an ocean fishing expedition. To his right is a woman looking at the camera as well. She is clearly dressed not to go fishing, but to be there and enjoy the sea. They each have a bottle of beer in their hands. The sun is shining brightly, casting bold shadows onto the deck.

Who was he, Lucilius, this J? Yes, I know his name and I can gather a bit from where he had financial transactions, but other that the only clue I have is this picture.

Did he always like fishing? Was this a one time trip? Was the cashmere scarf that he had from this woman? Was she his girlfriend, his wife, his sister? A friend? What did he think of all that has happened in the last year? Where was he? What did he do?

And why did it all come to an end against the side of building in a snow storm?

His story is not unique, now or ever. For most of history most of us have gone to the grave known perhaps by a few around us but forgotten within a few years or a generation. It was only in the modern world, with pictures and videos and books and electronic memory that the names of millions could be remembered.

Could be. Were. Now, we slip by and if we are lucky, we are briefly remembered.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca