The Indian fig tree family is one of the most extraordinary species with whom we share this planet. Even today, in India you’ll find them growing almost anywhere—out of a wall, sprouting from a pavement, taking over entire compounds. To walk in a grove of bodhi or peepal trees is to experience the world in a way that is uniquely Indian. I’ve been in redwood forests, pine groves, and other stands but the fig trees of India have a wanton wildness that truly brings home the meaning of the word “jungle.”

As much as I love the conference, I discovered there’s no quicker way to become invisible than to walk around with a toddler at an academic conference. People I’ve known for years developed sudden blindness and a preference for taking the long way around rather than pass where we were sitting. Left alone with my son sleeping in his stroller, I started writing about COVID-19 and the strain of being a mom and having an unsure foundation (which is one of the very conditions of parenthood).

It’s a story in the format of a prompt. Of course, nothing like this would actually work or even be needed. But this is a short story so I did what I wanted.

There was an anthology call for stories that took inspiration from Greek and Roman mythology, but that used them for unexpected voices. Around the time of the anthology call, the US withdrew from Afghanistan. While many supported that decision, a great many soldiers were left feeling that they’d betrayed those to whom they’d made promises over there, and that they’d left a job undone.

With this story, I really wanted to tell a story about humanity’s relationship with plants, which have become/are becoming more and more important to me. Climate change and habitat destruction in the forms of logging, development, pollution, etc. are killing off entire species. Our planet is now in the process of being remade by the climate catastrophe. But what happens after the apocalypse comes and some people, some plants, go on living?