Rick Olsen
Colorful Wall
From time to time, my friends and I used to think about alien archaeologists, in the far-flung future, excavating the ruins we might leave behind if we all leave or die out.
It sounds bleak and morbid, I know. It calls to mind landfills, rusted hulks of empty buildings. Junk tumbled onto the beach by the sea. Bones, bleached by the sun.
But now I’m older, and maybe less afraid. I don’t need to look so far ahead for a long look back. I think they’d see the worst of the species in our leavings, but they’d see the best too; they’d see the beauty of our faded colors, and the oddball things we propped up in corners. They’d see the contradictions and frailty that kept each of us awake at night, at least once or twice, to gaze out the window at a darkened sky.
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