The earth flattens out at the very end. There are mountains and cliffs and waterfalls as tall as the CN Tower, forests, marshlands and then the flat space at the very edge where there’s nothing but grass spread out like icing on a St Patrick’s Day cake and a man named Christopher to maintain it all.
Christopher doesn’t know how long he’s been there, but he doesn’t remember not being there, so he thinks probably eternity, cutting the grass and repairing the sprinklers and staring into the white part after the end of the world, the grass transitioning into nothingness the way an echo disappears. As far as Christopher can tell, the world has got an endless end, nothing and then nothing and then more nothing after that.
Christopher doesn’t know if anyone ever told him it’s his job to make sure the grass is watered and neatly mowed, but he knows it the same way he knows his name is Christopher even though he can’t remember if he ever had a mother. He thinks be probably did though, once have a mother in another life by the ocean. It was a place with waves of water instead of blades of grass, and he had a little sister too, who ran away.
He’s been alone at the edge of the earth for so long now, the whiteness beyond the grass like a canvass that will never be painted. He usually thinks he couldn’t possibly have had a life before this, but on some days, when the blades are trimmed and the sprinklers are sprinkling he looks out at the grass like green glass bottles and remembers floating in the ocean. He remembers a little sister who ran away, and he remembers there are other things out there before the end of the world and the whiteness and the whiteness and the whiteness. There are mountains and cliffs, forests and marshlands and waterfalls as tall as the CN Tower, and sometimes the wind from those places comes to him and the rustling blades look like waves, and it’s then he thinks maybe this isn’t the end of the world with the blankness and the blankness and the blankness, but instead it’s the very beginning.