Interment

Or, Aurora Plants a Seed

// originally written in response to a 2022 Foresight Institute prompt and recently reworked with some assistance from LEX and images from GPT

A dense curtain of rain nearly obscured the foliage and hillsides flickering by, though the deluge made only the faintest stutter on the roof of the autosine, highlighting the silence inside. Aurora rode alone, wishing the rain would patter more peskily as it had on the fragilely engineered Toyota of her youth. She could use the distraction.

She allowed her head to tilt and rest against the expansive window, studying the water streaming horizontally across the glass. She recalled how differently the water had behaved on the windows of that old family car, winding slowly down in circuitous streams as they crawled along at 85mph - her father itching to grasp the wheel - her mother, fondly bemused, shaking her head in refutation. They had all loved that car. Her parents had insisted on ownership, and on manual capability. "So weird" she had perpetually taunted them, secretly as delighted by the novelty as they by the nostalgia.

A knot of grief grew in her stomach.

Breathe

She pulled her attention back to the glass, and whispered, “music.”

A gentle blend of Bach and 90s jazz wound softly through the air— sorrowful, yet comforting. After all these years, her assistant well knew how to read the timbre of Aurora’s grief and which tones might soothe her soul.

“That’s kind” she murmured.

Listening, Aurora could imagine the streaming water outside were lines of music, dancing across the glass into peculiar bars of some fluid notation. It was as though the rain sang along - quietly testing the timbre of the roof, the road, the fields outside, and scrawling the tune upon the window for her benefit.

Silently, she thanked the rain for falling.

She had dreaded a clear day, as it had been when her father passed -- clear, bright, gorgeous. She recalled the interment ceremony, the sensation of hot tears on her warm cheeks, the sky’s shining disposition mocking her grief with uncanny splendor.

She had loathed the sun for weeks.

That was 30 years ago. He had died early, tired, scarred by the misuses of biotech witnessed in his youth and wary of the fruits of longevity research.

The following years had been difficult for all of them, though her mother most. The loss of her partner of 43 years, and the prospect of living on, perhaps for decades still -- it had daunted. Ciara-Jane. CJ. Mom. They had nearly lost her then too.

Aurora and her sister had tried everything to re-engage their mother with the world, desperate for more time with her, but it was simply gardening that had brought her back. Ciara-Jane’s renowned green thumb had proven a steadfast compass to her love of life.

In the years since, her mother had flourished–spending more time with her daughters, reanimating her biodesign practice and finding new friends. The health, beauty, and increasing range of bioengineered and de-extincted flora had opened her mind to aging treatments. Aurora had been shocked and overjoyed when Ciara-Jane had sat down with them and formally explained the course of gene therapies she was planning to pursue and why her own inquiry and research had suggested it was the best path and selection of professionals.

That choice had demanded Ciara-Jane seek out a new spiritual community, more hospitable to longevity technologies. The change had cost her friendships, the tools and choices remaining controversial to many. Yet, after choosing to live, her mother had returned to her unstoppable self, more vibrant than in decades. Choosing cryopreservation had come as the last step in a series of thoughtful end-of-life planning decisions. Aurora, aware of the growing promise of recent research, had supported the decision wholeheartedly.

Then, just over a week ago, her mother died.

At the age of 115, she’d gone peacefully and surrounded by loved ones, as she had hoped.

In the hospital, Aurora had said a final goodbye and released her mothers still-warm hand, departing in surreal grief with the rest of the family. Technicians had respectfully, but immediately, taken their place. She had expected to loathe being ushered away by unfamiliar hands–had even braced herself for the necessity of it–but the technician's faces and manner had strangely touched her. Solemn, professional, and deeply familiar with death, their demeanor held unenviable equanimity. Instead of frustration, their quietude had reflected and deepened her grief.

Breathe

Today, the grief remained, though only the rain wept. Aurora’s task was a simple ritual, a favor her mother had requested: the planting of a favorite flower in a favorite place. Aurora’s hand grasped for the asteroidal iron locket around her neck - an abstract form resembling a sculpted G-clef - holding it and the seed inside against her chest.

She closed her eyes and sent her mind drifting with the music.

Not long after, the autousine emerged from the hills and began an arching path into open inland plains, the rain lightening slightly. She recognized the terrain and gathered herself for arrival.

On the crest of the final slope, she looked down to find a familiar pattern unfurling across the landscape.

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Arcing rows of pomegranite, chestnut, and apple trees filled the valley like the petals of an immense flower. At their origin presided an organic temple of colorful glass, buttressed by sweeping arms of printed steel.

Aurora knew the design well - her mother had first sketched the arsarium’s fibonacci gardens years ago and they had frequented the site together throughout its development. Ciara-Jane’s early work on the project - a home of practice for practioners of her lively arts - had earned her a stake in the institution and enduring right of access for her and her daughters.

Among the trees, Aurora could spot students and casual wanderers seeking quietude or inspiration. Soon, she too was gliding among the familiar foliage, as the autosine traced the narrow pavement to the heart of the gardens, where the structure began to re-emerge.

Several hundred feet shy of the arsarium, the road ended, giving way to a clearing and footpath. The autousine lifted the sidewall above Aurora, offering a landscape view and one step of shelter from the rain. She donned her coat and stepped out, its warmth rising to meet the chill

Aurora pulled up her hood to enjoy the rain's resonant tapping, letting the approaching umbrellier know she preferred the weather's touch.

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Rising before her stood the arsarium. At once organic and mathematical, the evolved design of printed steel swirled upwards to house a honeycomb latticework of colored glass.

Aurora spotted her friend Alex waiting, sheltered under one of the eve’s near the entrance and quickened her pace. They exchanged faint smiles and wordlessly embraced.

“Should we head in?”

“Yeah, just give me a second.”

Aurora walked over to the edge flower patch and sunk her left hand into the ground, coming back with a fistful of dark soil.

“Ok, I’m ready” She breathed out.

They walked into a deep hall of vertical gardens - dense vines and hanging flowers concealed most of the walls, nourished by gleaming threads of water and light that wound through the structure. Tree-like pillars of printed steel climbed into the air, then branched to mingle arms and support a kaleidoscopic canopy of dynamic stained glass.

Shapely patches of wall un-concealed by flora were revealed a honeycomb pattern of diversely sized alcoves. Fractal gargoyles of abstraction reached out from large indentations while smaller pockets, belonging to individuals or families, hosted trinkets of remembrance, books, or remained empty.

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At the base of the third column on the right, Aurora knelt to face one small prismatic cubby in the wall and read the inscription of her mother’s name. She took a breath, centered her hand in the space, and let the soil run out the bottom of her fist into a small pile. She made a small thumb-print in the middle, then ceremoniously removed her necklace and extracted a single seed from the locket. She placed the seed in the thumbprint, paused for a moment, and covered it with a thin layer of soil. She guided thin strands of light and water from the pillar to embrace the seed.

Then she sat there kneeling, for one final moment, considering her work.

Breathe

Aurora stood, looked up through the temple’s metallic branches once more, absorbing the expansiveness of the space, and walked out.

Alex shared the ride back with her, though it was out of her way. They spoke of gentle mundanities of daily life before saying goodbye outside Aurora’s home.

She made her way along the brief stone walkway to the front door of her coastal home, breathing in the ocean air.

Inside, she disconnected from the world and put on water for tea.

The water had yet to reach a boil when she heard a knock and Alex's voice, soft, cautious, and containing an edge of urgency: "Aurora?"

She opened the door to find Alex's eyes strangely excited.

"Hey, what's up? Everything alright?"

Alex stared back, her voice tinged with concern: “...there’s something you should see…”

Aurora felt the weight of Alex's gaze and quickly checked her muted feed, finding a message from her friend in longevity research, who curated developments in the field. She opened it.

"Lab of Owenson and Teller successfully revived canine ‘Leo’ in the first stable mammalian re-animation."

She looked up at her friend, and emitted a half sob, half laugh, shaken.

Alex stepped forward, her arms offering embrace, and Aurora leaned onto her friend’s shoulder and wept, as the grief washed through her. Then, through the tears, a soft, feathered feeling nestled in, and she began to laugh.

That night, the skies cleared. As Aurora sought sleep, she imagined the seed sitting in the moonlit temple, musing that, perhaps, one day, her mother would see it bloom again.

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