Left corner just by the fridge: the aspidistra sits quietly, an undying phoenix of pot plant regalia and evergreen staple of apartment decor; this plant, though never truly blending into its position, has been shuffled across the many diffrent corners, of hundres of apartments, more frequently than a game of chess played with only one piece.
Green and as ageless as the red clay of Kalgoorlie, the aspidistra rests in a state of eternal stillness. Wind slips away from its corner, too afraid of disturbing the spade shaped leaves and breaking the silent tension that hangs heavy in the afternoon sun.
It is a proud plant, unconcerned by a drought of under-watering and nonplussed by the wail of the vacuum cleaner which sends that oafish dog fleeing out onto the verandah every Sunday; things such as these are tawdry to an aspidistra.
It will survey the apartment before it, silently judging the sections of missvacuumed carpet with a deep, almost fartherly, disappointment. Despite the aspistrastra’s unmoving existence, it openly states that it could do a much better job of cleaning than its current homeowner: somehow.
A terracotta pot is what our aspistrastra calls home: a squat cylinder of brown and browner browns, faint lines of a sun damaged illustration hide behind the ever dulling glaze: a windmill is drawn, almost disappeared, beside a broken fence.
Hands once put effort into this pot, care into it’s moulded creation.
A chip, torn from the pot’s rim ,shows a scar of the passage of time, it has existed where the aspidistra has not.
One will eventually be no more–I worry for the pot sometimes.
A golden pothos suns itself by the kettle, emitting an ambiance of reflectful melencolia against the kitchen’s tiles. Shyly the plant wilts backward into the pot when observed, almost ashamed of it’s own leaves, that softly blend yellows and greens in a pattern akin to algae resting upon water.
The pothos wavers and melts into the decor of the wooden countertop, flecks of dusted flour giving it an almost hazy sheen. ‘I am but a pile of sticks, nothing to see here,’ it says, ‘please pay me no mind’ the plant continues, leaning sidewards in an attempt to tip itself off the benchtop and into the recycling bin underneath.
It looks to the fridge and dreams of replacing one of the bags of frozen peas: it would be happier in the freezer, in the dark, the quiet. ‘Such is a place I’d gladly live.’
On the microwave sits a tiny cactus, he joyfully clicks along to the Russian jazz that trickles from the close by radio. Nothing can upset the catus, he breathes and thinks of life, it is quite nice on top of the microwave. The dappled sunlight never shines too harsh on his perch and the world outside his window seems to stretch on forever.
But he knows that this is not his natural habitat: distant memories of an expansive desert stretch off beyond him, pebbles and hidden lithops scatter the barren horizon, there’s a harshness to this world he had travelled from, a serated edge to the sythe of existance.
The tiny cactus knows his luck though, and he is thankful for it; there is nothing more a cactus could wish for than a patch of shade during the midday sun and to live in such a place that no one could step on them as night reclaimed the sky.
Elsewhere, a forgotten pot grows dust behind the living room couch.
In days long ago a fern had been here, splashing vibrant green into the corner of the white rendered wall, but now it exists as only a sad reminder of someone’s lackisdacial watering regime. What was to be well intentioned greenery quickly became forgotten, leaving the corner better suited for the collection of dust or an unplugged reading lamp.
The dirt, now dry as the pilbara, lives on though. It remains as it always has, never minding how it moves or what lies with it. Dirt is old, dirt is patient; It may even outlive the aspidistra.
For centuries before us, plants had managed their own business quite well until our guiding hand took to cultivation.
This may, of course, allude to some hidden metaphor resting behind a couch or paragraph. But, much like the aforementioned fern, any care for allegorical wordplay has been heartily neglected.
This world has a great many plants and the ones we choose to live with reflect us.
A bowl of petunias is at rest on the dining table.
They seem heavier than at first glance,
best not disturb them.
J.McCray
2020
Sunday Short Stories 