Susan comes in with a spray bottle. I lift my head, but otherwise don’t move, following her silently as she moves across the room. She waters a small green plant on a white marble end table. She leaves. I drop my head back to my reading.
I’m in the Sanctuary. Sunday mornings and the end of each working day. The bedroom door closed; I’m on the bed. Zeke, with his head between his paws, is snoozing and leaning into me. We’re in the decompression chamber.
I glance over to my right.
I have never seen that plant.
I have never seen that end table.
I’m in the middle of Patti Smith’s memoir “Just Kids” and recall a line that stuck: “Nothing is finished until you see it.” Thank God for me for that. There’s a lot left to See.
Susan’s on the ground floor. I send her a text.
“How long has that plant been there?”
“Really, Dave? It’s been there for over a month.”
One month? It’s five feet away. I didn’t know it existed. I send a follow-on text. [Read more…]