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Plant & Forget

A short fiction

Everything is slower, the world has been set to three quarter speed. One of the very rare moments in life when time actually slows down rather than speeds up up and away. Perhaps it is in reverence to the situation, or maybe it is much more about an unwilling participant just wanting all of it to be over already.

It’s not like one can just run to the the local megamart, that just seems wrong somehow. Yet it seems equally ridiculous to head to a specialty store in order to drop fifty dollars on something that will chewed up by a carefree machine and composted in a matter of days. But $83.57 later I thank the clerk like they did me a favor some how.

That ever present culturally inspired driving-rage, oft aggressively fanned by off-hour rush-hour traffic and seven day a week Sunday drivers, is blessedly tempered by the solemnity of task that lay ahead. An easy trip aided by knowing the way there very well. Or more specifically having memorized each curve, light, and stop sign for this route, for nothing other than avoiding the bright and auto-tuned chirpy turn-by-turn assistant wishing everyone in earshot to have a pleasant and safe drive. I need the quiet.

The engine is turned off before parking, in an effort to not to wake the endlessly sleeping inhabitants. Mind swimming in meaning less laps in an overflowing space, full of empty and nothing thoughts, hands resting at 10-and-2. They never ever rest at 10-and-2. Energy spent actively avoiding eye contact with the severed clipped snipped bouquet acting my passenger, thankfully no longer setting off the fasten your seat belt warning light. One can only notice they are breathing.

pTock-click…kaThunk. Loud. Huh… Wearing the wrong shoes for this wet fresh cut grass. Catching myself calculating the time lost, or perhaps well spent, looking at the individual drops of morning sweat and the microscopic gem suns framed by a now ruined spitshine.

They… (does a “they” ever become an “it”?) patient before, They are now infinitely patient, so no time will feel wasted on their part. Waiting is now on my time alone.

Granite. Marble. Granite.
Granite. Fieldstone. Concrete.
Granite. Iron. Sandstone.
Granite. Granite. Granite and Bronze.
Granite.

Punctuating my head down march in syncopation are poorly painted plastic posies planted at nearly every other marker. Strangely a rage is awoken by this poorly timed pin drop—echoing and amplifying in the emptiness of the
chasam now living in neighborhood where the human heart normally receives its daily mail.

Did someone really think that this trite bric-a-brac arrangement was enough? That they could just stab these plastic fucking flowers into the dirt and call it a day. Job well done Timmy, you can go back to your life and forget all about this. Good on you Jane, you have honored and respected to the best of your … ability… the memory…

Rubbing the hornet swarm stings from my eyes, I manage a stuttering inhale made by someone not used the new shapes that make up my insides. A glint of inward focused sympathy burns a web of fault lines in the anger that was trying to work as pathetically inadequate shield, attempting to wall me off…
to protect me… from my own consuming amber grief.

Ok then. Here goes nothing.