The dieffenbachia grew wildly in the back, just behind the rusty barbed wire. Its long green arms reaches past the barrier, and spotted fingers caress the sharp thorns. As wind disturbs the peace, I hear the thick rustle of leaves.
How long had I been sitting here?
I am shaken out of my reverie. The cup I hold in my hand had lost its warmth. Slowly, I get up and place it in the dirty sink.
Laughter. I turn to look at the old ladies who seemed to enjoy themselves with a pitcher of tuba. Their words are a blur. All I hear are muffled voices, all I see are wrinkled skin, sun spots on their hands and faces, and missing teeth.
I’ve been thinking, you know. I still get those fits from time to time, but I’m alright. I brought flowers, by the way.
Roses- wrapped in newspaper. Not as fancy as the bouquet I once gave, but it comes from the same place. I unwrap it slowly and place it under the faucet, and let the water flow through the stems.
Rivulets of water met, and bled through my fingers. Is it at all possible, that you are still as real as the petals that have fallen off from these roses? Or perhaps I’ll just wake up, and realize this was nothing more than a figment of my imagination?
I almost got the answer. But it flew from my mind just as quickly as it had come.
Perhaps, like all other secrets, they are hidden. In that forest just behind, where leaves grow as thick, and block out the sun.
How long had I been sitting here?
I am shaken out of my reverie. The cup I hold in my hand had lost its warmth. Slowly, I get up and place it in the dirty sink.
Laughter. I turn to look at the old ladies who seemed to enjoy themselves with a pitcher of tuba. Their words are a blur. All I hear are muffled voices, all I see are wrinkled skin, sun spots on their hands and faces, and missing teeth.
I’ve been thinking, you know. I still get those fits from time to time, but I’m alright. I brought flowers, by the way.
Roses- wrapped in newspaper. Not as fancy as the bouquet I once gave, but it comes from the same place. I unwrap it slowly and place it under the faucet, and let the water flow through the stems.
Rivulets of water met, and bled through my fingers. Is it at all possible, that you are still as real as the petals that have fallen off from these roses? Or perhaps I’ll just wake up, and realize this was nothing more than a figment of my imagination?
I almost got the answer. But it flew from my mind just as quickly as it had come.
Perhaps, like all other secrets, they are hidden. In that forest just behind, where leaves grow as thick, and block out the sun.
