I never get used to this city being stretched and stretched like elastic. New constructions every day. Streets that were open and wide, now like canyons. The sun glinting off and dying on boxy buildings. Everything looks the same. America the bland. Every day I leave my box and return to it. The only green I see are the houseplants I get out of compulsion. I even get one of those lamps that mimic sunlight. I need the green, but I discover I have a brown thumb. Out in the patio, I catch a bit of sky. A smoke break. A nod at the neighbor. Whose plants are thriving by the way, and I think it’s because they aren’t real. One bright day I’m let go. The days stretch endlessly, but my mind doesn’t. I give myself tasks to stay focused. Odd projects. Like stenciling my cabinets. My neighbor, whose name I never asked, moves away. I take to talking to my plants. Suddenly, they get me. Tendrils shoot up, leaves sparkle. But they also pick up on my grief and wilt in empathy. They thrive when I thrive. Once the spider plant almost dies when I’m in the throes of a heavy bout. For them, I try to stay upbeat. But again, they change course. They perk up when I’m down and droop when I tap my feet to music. I begin to feel something tearing up. With slow deliberation. And then, that febrile night. Come morning, I find my one half sitting in bed, still in underpants, legs tucked neatly underneath. The other half at the sink meticulously flossing teeth which I never mastered. Torso suspended mid-air. I feel sick. My posture is one that facilitates digestion. But I hate yoga. Always have. You’ve got to believe me.
Sayantani Roy’s writing straddles both India and the U.S., and she calls both places home. Her writing appears in The Seattle Times and on Pen to Print. Her poems are forthcoming in Cold Lake Anthology. She hopes to teach poetry to young children one day.
Image: reddit.com
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Heavy Feather Review 