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Gram is worried about me. It’s not just because my sister Bailey died four weeks ago, or because my mother hasn’t contacted me in sixteen years, or even because suddenly all I think about is sex. She is worried about me because one of her houseplants has spots.
Gram has believed for most of my seventeen years that this particular houseplant, which is of the nondescript variety, reflects my emotional, spiritual and physical wellbeing. I’ve grown to believe it too.
Across the room from where I sit, Gram – all six feet and floral frock of her, looms over the black-spotted leaves.
“What do you mean it might not get better this time?” She’s asking this of Uncle Big: arborist, resident pothead and mad scientist to boot. He knows something about everything, but he knows everything about plants.
To anyone else it might seem strange, even off the wall, that Gram, as she asks this, is staring at me, but it doesn’t to Uncle Big, because he’s staring at me as well.
“This time it has a very serious condition.” Big’s voice trumpets as if from stage or pulpit; his words carry weight, even pass the salt comes out of his mouth in a thou-shalt-Ten-Commandments kind of way.
Gram raises her hands to her face in distress, and I go back to scribbling a poem in the margin of Wuthering Heights. I’m huddled into a corner of the couch. I’ve no use for talking, would just as soon store paper clips in my mouth.
“But the plant’s always recovered before, Big, like when Lennie broke her arm, for instance.”
“That time the leaves had white spots.”
“Or just last fall when she auditioned for lead clarinet but had to play second chair again.” “Brown spots.”
“This time it’s different.”
I glance up. They’re still peering at me, a tall duet of sorrow and concern.
Jag vet inte riktigt vad den handlar om, mer än en död syster, men det är samma författare som till I'll Give You the Sun så jag är säker på att det blir bra :) Fler smakbitar finns på Maris blogg. Ha en skön dag!