Bodies piled up like sticks of wood in a rick.
Trucks drove up and unloaded more bodies.
Bodies upon bodies upon bodies rolled into the mulch pile.
Used to be that wood chips, grass clippings and bits of rubber tyre were the favourite form of insulation/protection spread around the formal landscape.
But, when bodies became too plentiful to dispose of properly, government regulations freed the use of bodies for gardening.
Fresh bone meal for the roses. The ashes of Air Force warriors for flower bulbs.
After all, parts is parts, as they say.
Until we truly give ourselves over for recycling, then recycling is just a word for pretending to do the right thing when putting a few cans and plastic bottles at the curb once a week.
Next door, the driver lifts the canvas top from his load, pulls down the liftgate and dumps a pile of fresh mulch for my neighbour.
Flies buzz around.
Steam curls into the crisp, late autumn air.
“Special imported Syrian mulch,” the walnut-skinned driver yells at me as he takes a wad of cash from my neighbour. “Better than Mexican.”
I nod, glimpsing the future on another planet, where every organic resource is more precious than flerovium and livermorium.
Until they place a moratorium on mulched corpses, the future is now my past and present, too.