But it's not true that "nobody remembers" the past. I'm never going to turn into the knife-wind of winter and not scent for mammoth. I can't read an article about giant sloths without saying, "They were so delicious. We ate them all." (If you've had beef tongue, sloth was a lot like that, only all over: rich and sweet and melt-in-your-mouth tender. Because they didn't move unless they had to.) I remember the prairie like a sea of grass, the waves winking silver-and-green, then suddenly blinding with flowers. It could be all pink one week and all yellow the next, or sometimes a dozen colors mixed together. I remember. People look at a few hundred blackbirds and say "That's a lot of birds." Not if they aren't blotting out the sun, it's not.
It makes me want to chat up the Druze. I wonder what they remember. They stick to a different part of the world, and it's beat to hell. Do they remember the Cedars of Lebanon? I bet they do. It probably makes them homesick like me remembering when Sumer was green and green as far as the eye could see before the fields salted up.
It doesn't matter if we remember. Nobody believes us. Nobody listens to us. We've seen it all before, and it's happening again.
If humanity wipes itself out, I wonder if the rats will remember us. They'll probably think we were gods, and this shithole will be their Eden. Once, there was food everywhere, and the gods dropped it from the sky so you could just run out and grab it instead of having to work for it.