The control that we can never have when it comes to mortality and inevitable loss. Anticipatory grief and wanting to covet all that is, and yet isn’t, gone. Mourning something still here and not here at all. Resenting memories’ fleeting nature. All of this hurts enough, but what if you could have such a closeness as in this story because of a fungal infestation? The world is dying, animals are endangered and humans are sick and distant. What if, at the end of all of this, of everything, love can be found through cordycep-made enmeshment? What if it isn’t? Where is the line between closeness and control?
