rolling over the consonants, your tongue poking into n’s and over the s’s.”
Polly’s ancestors came all the way from Africa, originally. Well, we all did.
She’s the only constant from my childhood, the only living thing that survived.
She was a birthday present, but I can’t remember who gave her to me, which is strange.
I was not, after all, a girl who was overwhelmed with gifts.
She came with me from my childhood bedroom, survived the foster placements and children’s homes and, like me, she’s still here.
I’ve looked after her, tended to her, picked her up and repotted her when she was dropped or thrown.
She likes light, and she’s thirsty. Apart from that, she requires minimal care and attention, and largely looks after herself.
I talk to her sometimes, I’m not ashamed to admit it. When the silence and the aloneness press down and around me,
crushing me, carving through me like ice, I need to speak aloud sometimes, if only for proof of life.
A philosophical question: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
And if a woman who’s wholly alone occasionally talks to a potted plant, is she certifiable?
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