The skin bag is flawed, speckled with moles, freckles, little broken veins. And scars, of course.
I think of a pathologist examining this carcass, noting every detail, weighing each organ. Meat inspection. Fail.
It is incomprehensible to me now that I could ever have thought that anyone would love this ambulant bag of blood and bones.
Beyond understanding. I think of that night—when was it, three days ago, four?—and reach for the vodka bottle.
I retch again, remembering. The day had not augured well from the start.
Polly the plant had died that morning. I’m fully aware of how ridiculous that sounds.
That plant, though, was the only living link with my childhood, the only constant between life before and after the fire,
the only thing, apart from me, that had survived.
I’d thought it was indestructible, assumed it would just go on and on, leaves falling off, new ones growing to replace them.
I’d neglected my duties these last few weeks, too busy with hospitals and funerals and Facebook to water her regularly.
Yet another living thing that I’d failed to look after. I wasn’t fit to care for anyone, anything.
Too numb to cry, I dropped the plant into the bin, pot, soil and all,
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