unbound

by Brian Christopher Giddens

I performed emergency surgery today on a long-forsaken houseplant. It sits in shade, unnoticed, like fading wallpaper. You see it, but you don’t. The dirt is parched, compacted, the leaves withered. I jab a kitchen knife into the soil-it barely gives. I jab harder, dig the plant out. The root ball tangled like a ball of knotted string. Using the knife, I wrestle roots apart, slash shriveled ends. I transplant what’s left to a new pot, tamping fresh dirt down around the base. I place it near a window where it will wake to morning sun. I imagine the plant’s surprised sigh as it drinks in a cool glass of water.

Where is the unseen hand to rip me out of place? To cut away my shriveled roots, separate my endless tangles? To slough off the dry, dusty clots impeding growth? To resettle me in fresh soil, reawakening my senses? I may not survive the shock, but better that, than this laborious decline.

Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry from his home in Seattle, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian’s writing has been featured in the New York Times (Tiny Love Stories), Sequestrum, Litro, Raven’s Perch, Bluebird Word, Hyacinth Review, Rue Scribe, Corvus Review, Roi Faineant, Glass Gates Collective, Flash Fiction Magazine, Glimpse and Evening Street Review. His work can be found on https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com/