There were plants out on the curb, not contained in garbage bags, no longer contained by the broken pots that could be seen in the growing mound of potting dirt by the trash bins. Their leaves were dry, the stems were brittle. Roughly veined hands heaved pot after pot onto the pile, each bringing the sound of heartbreak. THUD. CRACK. And potting soil spilled, no longer any use to dying plants, left to be washed away by a coming rain or scuffed to the wind by little kicking feet.
I never thought that house held life. I always heard the yelling and the shouting, the crying pleas: Please. I saw little shoulders stilled by the sound of heavy boots, smiles fading into hooded eyes and little fingers dropping forbidden toys. The windows were dark with curtains drawn when they opened in the night.
And then I watched , that day, those hands throw away a labor of love, pot after pot. And I looked into eyes that didn't see me.
His eyes were shining pools of fresh, raw grief. And I could feel it too.
I love her. I love her. I love her, He said to me. And my throat tightened and I had to look away.
The house is silent in the evenings now.
I never thought that house held life. I always heard the yelling and the shouting, the crying pleas: Please. I saw little shoulders stilled by the sound of heavy boots, smiles fading into hooded eyes and little fingers dropping forbidden toys. The windows were dark with curtains drawn when they opened in the night.
And then I watched , that day, those hands throw away a labor of love, pot after pot. And I looked into eyes that didn't see me.
His eyes were shining pools of fresh, raw grief. And I could feel it too.
I love her. I love her. I love her, He said to me. And my throat tightened and I had to look away.
The house is silent in the evenings now.