“Momma, that makes no sense,” says your son Danny, as the mechanical clanking of the machine helping him to breathe reaches your ears.
You glance around the hexagonal table, first at Donny, then at his younger sister, Mina, and then finally at the love of your life, who today is as gorgeous as they are every day, for support.
Alas, you will not receive it, as their facial expression reveals they think that what you’re saying, indeed makes no sense.
“It does,” you say calmly, taking a bite of the rehydrated protein you’ve had as nourishment for the past decade of your life. “It just wasn’t always like this.”
“Mom,” your perfectly reasonable older child says, “food doesn’t just swim in the ocean.”
“It did once, kind of,” you say.
“But it’s poisonous,” interjects Mina.
“Wasn’t always so,” you say matter-of-factly. “You used to be able to just take some of the fish, cook it, and have it wrapped in a flour tortilla. With vegetables or any other toppings you wanted, really.”
“Darling,” says the love of your life, “Please don’t confuse the children. They don’t understand the privigiles you were born into.”
You drop your fork in frustration.
“It wasn’t even that fancy! Everyone had them! Like, all the time!”
You take a moment, and then let your breath exit your still-functioning lungs in a huff. You stand up from the table, and walk away, only sparing a quick glance for the red sky and black clouds.