text: I wish I could cry. I wish I could cry for all the people that died during the war. Not just the soldiers, but the innocents. I wish I could cry for the other people, too; the ones across the ocean that launched their missiles at us. I wish I could cry for the people that had to launch our own missiles back at them. That must have been hard to do. I wish I could cry... but I can't. It has been a long, long time since I have seen another person. I've seen the radiation subside and the sky turn back to its normal, beautiful blue. I've seen the rubble of buildings finally be retaken by nature; the vines and dandelions covering the crumbling piles of concrete. I wish I could cry for them, let my tears quench their thirst. I really like their color; yellow. I wish there were more people here to see them too; to cry over them with me. A lot of the time, I find bones. I wish I could cry over them. I wish I could cry for the people that they once were; the people that had lives, and homes, and families, and happiness. I wish I could cry for all of those, too. Sometimes, I'll find the bones of animals. It's easy to tell which of the piles of bones were made before the war. I wish I could cry for them, as well. I feel happy for the piles of bones that came after, though. I'd still like to cry over them. Not in sadness, though. I wish I could cry for the decaying, empty homes that no longer had people to fill them; make them whole. It seems like it would be an awful lonely being if your purpose just disappeared one day. I think I might know something about that, though. I wished that I could cry when I came across a walled garden some time ago. The trees were sickly; twisted by the radiation. They were sad trees. I wanted to cry for them. They had once grown peaches. They had once probably been delicious. I wish I could have tasted one. Now, the sad trees stood between the four scorched, brick walls; their branches half-empty, with only a few leaves lapping up the sun when it sparsely showed its face. I wish I could cry for the sun. It used to show its nice yellow face to everyone all the time, every day. Now, I only see it every couple of weeks. I wish I could cry for the clouds. They used to bring rain down to grateful plants and the mouths of delighted people, now the only weather they bring is dark and icy. It has been a long, long time since I've seen rain. I get to see snow often, though. I wish I could cry for the summer, and the spring. For the summer, because it used to be a long, happy time. It is still a happy time, and the sun shows its face more then, but it isn't a long time. For the spring, because it no longer has the rains to make it special. Now, it's just a warmer fall. I wish I could cry for the fall, as well. There used to be lots of leaves for the fall to make look pretty. There used to be lots of leaves that the fall could cover the ground with. I like the color yellow, but I think I would have liked all of the nice oranges and reds of the leaves even better. I have seen some people before, not just the piles of bones. They are always so sad and scared. I wish I could cry for them. I wish I could cry when they ran away from me. I wish I could cry because I would never get to really say "Hello" to them. I wish I could cry, but I can't. I walk past an old parking building, covered with snow and browning vines. Summer ended not long ago, and I wish I could cry for it and the vines. Not everything here is dead, though. I can see smoke coming from the top of the concrete tower, so I go inside. There are cars here, lots of old, rusting cars. I wish I could cry for them, now without people to take them around. I find some stairs, and start to go up. The steps aren't crumbing yet, but they are quite small for my feet. I wish I could cry for the stairs, now without more feet to use them. The parking building is big, and it takes a long time to climb, but I don't mind. I like to think that it is happy to have something inside of it again. The roof looks like everywhere else, when it is covered in snow. It looks just like a white, fluffy blanket on everything. I don't need to want to cry for this blanket, though, for two reasons. The first reason is that this cold, mean blanket isn't a blanket that anything wants to be under. The second reason, though, is they there is someone already here. Even from across the roof, I can see her. She has her back to be as she tends a small flame she has built in a small crater that she has carved out of the snow. She has on a gas mask. I can tell from the straps that wrap over and around her head. Under the straps, though, I can see that she has long, dark red hair. It's such a lovely, deep red. I think it is what the leaves would have looked like in the fall. The nice red clashed with her coat, though, but I don't mind. Her coat, a rubber rain-slick, was the same color as the dandelions at the height of summer. I wanted to cry for her colors, but not in sadness. Beyond her, there is a rifle leaned against the rusting, metal railing along the edge of the roof. Next to it are the remains of a rabbit. I didn't feel like crying over the rabbit, though. It had died, but it wouldn't become just another pile of wasted bones. She was grateful for this rabbit. This rabbit died good, not like the people from before. I take a step forward, but the snow and the roof crackle under my step. She whips around. I can't see her face. I wish that I could. Through the eyes of the mask, I can see hers go wide as she falls back into the snow, next to the fire. I throw my hands up to show that I mean her no harm. I just want to say "Hello" to her. She screams and scrambles for the gun against the railing. She slips. Her foot slides out from under her, and she catches most of her weight on the butt of the rifle. She is still falling, though, and she reaches for the railing in a panic. It breaks. I don't have enough time to even take another step before she disappears over the side of the roof. I know she's gone. I want to cry... but I can't. I stand there for a moment, watching the struggling fire continue to smolder with its creator having left it behind. I want to cry for the fire. I look at my hands, still outstretched in a plea for understanding. I wish I could cry for these hands. I wish I could cry for the stumps of metal, wire, and electricity that I called hands. I wish that I could cry for the same reason I wish I could cry for the fire... ...but I can't.