Mondays she waters his Kentish Palm that sits central on the windowsill.
On the first of the month she always adds a sprinkling of plant feed.
Daily she watches the pointed shiny leaves, laced with metallic greens, cast sundial shadows. They drift slowly across the magnolia walls and creep effortlessly over his empty, high-backed armchair.
Today, the pot lies on its side. The leaves, drained of any brightness, hang lifelessly; neglected over time. The plant rocks violently in the cold wind that blows through the shaded passageway, as if trying to break free from the black rubble bag and an abandoned ‘House For Sale’ sign.
Published: Shortlisted, Retreat West
