I open my eyes to an alluring day, the sun is shining, there’s not even a cloud in sight. I see a group of children laughing and playing, enjoying their day. We’ve come a long way since this whole thing began years ago. Without my mother, the wisdom and knowledge she left behind, I may of never gotten here or this far at least. Creating this wonderful community of survivors. I look outside to see my workers, their tending to the crops, fixing the fence, and attending to their lasting duties. I cough, I’m sick, and I fear my time will come to an end soon. I’ve never feared death until this day. So many battles I’ve overcome and this is what brings me down? Regardless, I’m so proud of what we as a community, and people, have accomplished and it couldn’t of been possible without the fallen. Our loved one's, strangers, and the unknown.

I look over to my nightstand, I see the journals my mother had wrote, every single one of them including mine that I’ve wrote, until this day. I pick the first one up and run my hands over the top of it, the title, the scratches, everything including the dents it's endured over time. It’s so old. It doesn’t seem that old, it seems like just yesterday when I took these journals from my mother’s bag. I open the book with fragile tendencies, taking care not to create any creases, smelling the scent the pages left in between. Remembering the memories of everything I had once put pass me. I miss you mother, I wished you could hold me one last time. With that memory, I began to read my first page. So I could at least dream of your touch again, your love again. Rest in peace my dear mother. May we see each other soon enough.

When my men shoot me for being dead.