I’m the last grandpa on Earth, and still ain’t nobody visiting me.
Sure, the kids are busy, but you’d think one of them would make the time. ‘Specially with all their kids grown up and no more babies coming to the entire species.
I ain’t asking much. Just a quick stop by my mobile home. Help me prune the tomatoes. Pick a few carrots. Shoot the breeze. Ain’t gonna be long before I’m gone and they can’t do that no more.
I told them, I did, when Jian died over in China and left me as the last one. I told my oldest son to put it out on the neuranet that I’d be everybody’s grandpa. They want to take their kids to see a grandpa, they come to me. No reason going extinct has got to take away those simple family moments.
At last census, that means I got 100 million grandkids.
And still ain’t nobody visiting me.
Dirk, he’s my oldest, says, “We gotta leave a legacy, Pa. We’re the last humans. We gotta build great buildings, write great literature, invent great technologies so the universe remembers us. When we’re gone, those creations’ll live on.”
I don’t know about that. All I know is I got an oak tree behind my home that I planted with my granddaughter when she was just three. That was before we knew about the sterilization plague, of course. I told her, “Jenny, you’re gonna take your grandkids here someday, sit down in the shade, and tell how you planted that tree with me.”
‘Course that ain’t gonna happen no more. Jenny’s sixteen now, one of the youngest hundred. If she lives a long time, she might be the final human. She already wrote three memoirs and a concerto. Says she’s gonna make sure she leaves her legacy.
I don’t know about that. But I do know, me and Jenny’s tree is gonna outlast the human race.
I’d love to plant more trees with more grandkids.
But ain’t nobody visiting me.