THE BULBS OUTSIDE OF HER WINDOW
One Saturday morning a girl and her friends go marketing on Deptford High Street. She remembers that it is winter, a time to plant bulbs to have fresh blossoms to look forward to come spring; and so, she inevitably ends up walking home before dark with Narcissus papryaceus, Hyacinthus orientalis, and Narcissus ‘King Alfred’ carried under both arms.
She wakes each morning and peers out her window to see the progress of her magic bulbs…
Anticipation.
Expectation.
Hope.
Fear.
Wonderment.
Undying (dis)satisfaction.
She lays in her bed thinking about what she might do in the next morning: Check on her bulbs again, waiting for something to happen? Will she miss out on winter by waiting for spring? She misunderstands the meaning of the verb to wait. ‘How can I delay something to happen as it happens?’ she asks herself, scratching at her ear.
Before bed, the girl decides to peer out her window. She sings to her bulbs. Her friend in the other room may hear her, but this moment is not marked with assurance. She does not know what will become of her plants, although the plants are hers. They are a part of her environment, her time, her season. She branded her spirit with x kilograms of soil and chlorophyll to feel alive, to remember the process of which things occur and marks are made. She waits for the unknown, and falls asleep to the idea of something.
-
theshrinkingviolets posted this
