OH, HARMONIOUS

 When we found out that​​ Mother Nature​​ would be holding a​​ press conference​​ at the local community college​​ gymnasium, we were​​ concerned. It had been a tough week for ecology—alligators were turning belly-up from heatstroke, Humboldt squid were choking out​​ fish life in the Gulf of Mexico, and freakish weather patterns were battering our part of Florida with a steady supply​​ of Texas-style tornadoes.​​ 

 The instant we saw her, we knew Mother Nature​​ was the real deal. A pretender might have overplayed the “earth child” routine—billowy dress dyed with natural pigments, maybe some hemp jewelry. No, Mother Nature took to the​​ podium​​ in a smart​​ robin’s egg shirt and a modest tie decorated with sea turtles or sand dollars​​ or the like—hard to tell from the bleachers.​​ ​​ 

 Hands on hips, she asked, “Well?”​​ She swiveled​​ to stare at a different part of the auditorium. “Well?” Swiveled again. “Well?” It went on like that, until even the cross-armed business​​ types​​ avoided her gaze. Some of us wrung our hats in our hands. The overall​​ we’re​​ so​​ damn​​ sorry​​ demeanor led​​ to​​ questions​​ of retribution.​​ 

 “Where’s that ice age I’ve been hearing about?” someone asked.​​ 

 “Is that why I’m here?” Mother Nature asked. “Think I’m going​​ to spank you​​ all​​ on the ass and tell you you’ve been naughty? You think this is Sodom and Gomorrah?​​ Think​​ again. I’m announcing my retirement.”​​ 

 Many of us looked to one another for support.​​ Mother Nature bent behind the​​ podium​​ and came up with an armful​​ of milk-loaded baby bottles, which she began hurling into the crowd. The skies of the gymnasium filled with bottles. Mother Nature​​ had​​ a serious throwing​​ arm.​​ All agreed that the milk tasted superb.​​ 

 “Drink up, babies,” she said. “It’s not going to rain ashes​​ and I’m not about​​ to cough up any flaming swords.”​​ ​​ 

 “Ma’am.” A​​ man in an Osmocote shirt rose from his seat and removed​​ his​​ ball cap. “I’d just like to say that as this area’s leading tomato farmer, I myself have tried to uphold natural—”

 “How many tons of pesticide did you dump​​ this​​ season, Harvey?”​​ Mother Nature asked.​​ 

 She​​ brought a tomato from under the​​ podium​​ and polished it against​​ her turtle tie. The​​ crowd had already turned on​​ Harvey with loud hisses and boos.​​ As he sat,​​ Mother Nature took a speculative bite.​​ 

 “I don’t know what this is,” she said, letting the​​ pale orange​​ fruit drop, “but it’s no tomato.”​​ 

 “Can’t anything be done?” a young woman called.​​ She paused to clap the lid over the kale-and-quinoa container she’d been eating from.​​ “Surely,​​ we​​ can change.”​​ She​​ gestured​​ to show us that this was the part where we might​​ prove​​ we were better than Harvey and the rest—we could​​ redeem ourselves.​​ 

 “Tell it to the​​ Lorax,”​​ Mother Nature said.​​ She brought out a pack of Marlboros and a metal lighter. She lit three​​ at once and got​​ puffing. “I’m not​​ going​​ to tell you,​​ No more coal plants. No more Humvees. No more air conditioners set to sixty-three.”​​ Her Lorax impression was impeccable.​​ 

 “So you’re saying​​ don’t​​ worry about the coal burning?” someone asked.​​ 

 “You wanted this place to burn?” she said, pausing to exhale a thunderstorm of smoke.​​ “Fine, let​​ it burn.​​ But don’t expect a full-on apocalypse—you ingrates haven’t earned that.​​ Don’t think​​ bang, think​​ leaky tire.” She tipped a​​ load of ash onto the​​ podium.​​ 

 “Apparently,​​ Mother Nature’s not so big on conservation,” someone whispered.​​ 

 “Conservation?” Mother Nature asked.​​ “Where were you when the dinosaurs got vaporized? Do you have any idea how​​ hard​​ that was for me?”​​ 

 “So why the lecture?” asked a​​ bearded guy​​ in a cardigan. “You say you’re​​ retiring, but you’re also​​ bemoaning​​ the Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction event, and​​ there’s nothing we—”​​ 

 A quick burst of sparks consumed the man’s cardigan. He now wore​​ a bulging diaper​​ and​​ was otherwise naked. “Oh, never mind,”​​ the man said.​​ ​​ 

 “Why I’m bothering,” she said, pacing. “Why I’m bothering—”​​ 

 She​​ ground​​ out the​​ cigarettes on the​​ palm of her hand and brought​​ out a koala bear, which she cradled against her shoulder. Disinterested in the crowd, the koala chewed a leaf.​​ 

 “This animal​​ can’t design a bomb​​ and it can’t log onto Netflix, but​​ even so,​​ I​​ like​​ it. That​​ doesn’t make me a saint.​​ Hell, the cute ones are easy.​​ You want to test your heart? Try liking​​ snakes​​ and pangolins.”​​ 

 Murmurs and​​ Oohs from​​ the audience. “You’re saying​​ we should​​ raise​​ more​​ snakes?” someone asked.​​ 

 “I’m saying it’s all very complicated.” She stowed the koala. “Even I don’t always get it right. Consider the platypus. Point is, I’m​​ spent, babies. Maybe you’ll figure something out. I doubt it but maybe.​​ I never thought you’d​​ master leavened bread. Work up another​​ such​​ miracle​​ or it’ll be more of this.”​​ 

 She extended her hand​​ but nothing happened.​​ 

 “I said it’ll be more of​​ this.”​​ 

 Our ears began​​ to pop. We cowered at​​ the sound of​​ chugging wind. The​​ overhead​​ lights flickered, then a large section of​​ metal peeled free.​​ Mother Nature​​ swept a hand​​ through her hair. Her curls​​ fell away in a clump. Now bald, she stripped away the​​ suit​​ and tie. Beneath, there was​​ only body—nothing​​ to mark it as this or that. Skin over muscle over bone.​​ From that entire​​ auditorium, the grit-heavy​​ wind lifted only her. Almost dainty, how​​ she​​ rode to the rafters and cleared the still-growing​​ void​​ the tornado had chewed into​​ the roof.​​ 

 In the wake of the storm, we—rattled and bleeding—argued viciously for change. Even after stars appeared​​ through the breached​​ roof,​​ we kept on.​​ What was the best method for icing down an overheated gator?​​ What the hell was a pangolin?​​ And how much pesticide​​ did​​ Harvey​​ need?​​ All night, the reek of Mother Nature’s cigarettes lingered among the grandstands.​​ 

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