Last Prayer

By Joanne Koshy

I walk the earth, but no one sees me. No one remembers me. The grand prayers, cheers echoing, all of it now just a remnant in only my memory. Once, they called my name in reverence. Now, the wind carries nothing but fragments of forgotten prayers. I am a shadow. Thin. Faint. Hidden.

I remember the gardens, the fields brimming with life. My touch once brought the crops to bloom, the trees that stretch toward the sky. I held the earth in my hands, whispered to the seeds, and the world responded in kind. With the coming peace from my touch, the faith empowered me. I was a beauty and a force that humans once orbited.

But time, it moves and with that, changes. They left me. A new faith filled their hearts, their hands pressed to a new sky. They no longer needed me. So, I was discarded. And so, I drift.

Once I was rageful. I commanded their minds. I shook the earth in fury. But with it their shadows only grew. I cried in the darkness I was pushed into. Only when my name was no longer uttered in their hearts was I able to see the world they created without me.

I linger, a ghost in the corners of the world. I feel the pulse of life around me, but it feels distant now. A life I once knew, slipping through my fingers. The green invades my abode. The sun is high and the moon bright. I watch from my broken altar as the scenery pass. The animals grew comfortable around me. The only guests I have. 

Time passes and I have forgotten the touch of a human mind.

But then a rustle one too small for my rabbit friends, but too large for the baby deer born only three nights ago.

A child. Barefoot, with dirt-streaked legs, wander through a field of wildflowers. Humming a tune much unfamiliar to me but a happy tune I assume. I watch, unseen, from the edge of the woods. I am unsure what to do here but I know I can’t join. I know my place as an outsider and my presence was too faint for a human to trace anyway. I can’t help but smile at the child. 

The child continues to play amongst the wildflowers when the child stops. Turns. Look directly at me. 

I freeze. Surely, they aren’t looking at me? I made no announcement to myself and yet, I can see where their gaze is. 

Their eyes—there’s something there. A spark. I can’t look away. I feel my heart pounding harder now. From anticipation? From fear? I cannot tell.

"Who are you?" the child asks, small and innocent.

I don’t answer. I don’t know how. I can’t remember how. A child filled with curiosity before me and I am unsure how to help. 

 But I find myself speaking before an answer came to mind, "no one.” 

A truth that still feels a little bitter in my mouth.

“Then how can I see you? Talk to you? You are someone.”

How wise of the child! They are precise in their words. 

“Then who am I? Do you know?” I ask with little hope the child can answer, when even I cannot answer.

The child’s gaze softens and nods, "I do. My grandmother told me stories. About the gods who made the fields grow, who gave us food when we were hungry."

A forgotten prayer flickers in the air, which a chill echoes in me. I used to hear that, long ago, with every harvest, with every need. But now... now, there’s nothing but silence. I have not aided humans since I returned to grass from my service to the dark. 

"I... I am not them…her," I whisper. I don’t know if I believe it, but I say it anyway. For I was her before but now, I am a shell. Nothing but a wisp in the wind. I can’t seem to even remember the most precious memories. 

The child doesn’t seem to care. They smile, running their hands through the wildflowers.

 "You must be. Only the goddess would know how to make the flowers bloom like this."

I feel it, a strange stirring in the air. True these flowers are my last proof of a power I once had but I do not solely control them. The once faithful could grow their own fields of these flowers. But somehow flowers do bend toward the child, as if reaching for their touch. I stand still as I watch the child smell the flowers.

"I don’t have the power anymore," I say, though I’m unsure what that even means anymore. 

The child doesn’t seem troubled by my words.

 "These flowers grew from you.”

“I control them not. They decide where to grow.”

The child laughs then points behind me with a smile. I glance back and see the animals beside me. I felt a few of their presence but underestimated the numbers 

“The animals know too,” the child smile, “you are real”

The truth of it hits me. I am here. I am real. How? I don’t know. But something stirs in me. A memory. A flicker of something old, something forgotten. The flowers bloom.

I’ve been hurt, I think. Abandoned. But... am I? I look down. A seedling. A tiny sprout, pushing its way through the soil beneath my feet.  

I stare at it, confused. I thought belief was everything. Without worship, I am nothing, I told myself. The others said as well. It was a fact among us. But was that the truth?

The child watch, with their eyes wide and hopeful, looks at me with something different. 

"See? The flowers are growing. The trees are reaching. It’s still working, isn’t it?"

I stared at the tiny sprout, feeling its pulse. My pulse, I realize. It’s not power. It’s something else. Something fragile. 

I breathe. The wind stirs, the earth shifts, and in the quiet of the field, something grows stronger inside me. 

The child claps their hands. "You don’t need worship. You just need the world."

I pause. I don’t know what to say. The words feel foreign now. But the world beneath me is alive again, and I-I-am a part of it.

I’ve been lost, yes. But not entirely. The child... the air… the trees… the flowers… they remember. They believe. 

I hadn’t known that belief could be so small. So pure. But in that moment, I understand. It isn’t about being needed. It isn’t about grand prayers and rituals. It’s the quiet moments, the smallest acts, the belief that stirs life, even when the world has changed.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice almost lost in the breeze.

The child smiles. "I’ll never forget."

And I believe them. Perhaps I’m not forgotten, not by all. Not by this one.

I stand taller, the earth beneath me shifting ever so slightly. I am not gone. Not yet. Not if belief still has a place here. 

I am here.

By Joanne Koshy