Post by Bird-of-Summer on Mar 10, 2011 14:29:45 GMT -7
Her hands were prune like, old and withered with age like they had been left out in the rain for too long. She held the tin watering can like an artist would a paintbrush with a loose grip almost letting the can and the brush do the work itself, rocking in the lips of her fingers. She tended the flowers as if they were her children, delicately like a potter molds clay feeling the wet material on their fingertips playing with its sediment.
She moved across this sea of plants only the sandy ocean floor were patches of tile sewn together and instead of a cloudless sky was a glass ceiling. Walking down the rows and columns of plants, some tall and narrow others bushy and branching out of there pots and over the table’s edges she observed the area closely. Some of the plants had flowers blooming at their heads and others barren and robbed of beauty. Their shapes were diverse and some had grey ringlets that hung like her gray hair always over looking her eyes, which never seemed hopeful anymore. Her eyes were once as vibrant as the plants she was walking amongst but now shadowed by crust that crystallized on her eyelids and lashes. She combed the area, did whatever needed doing and fixed whatever broken.
Everything seemed to be crumbling in this cottage now days, always something needed repairing. But being alone in this old place secluded by a façade of pine trees and Colorado’s hilly mountains where her only companion were her thoughts and the starlight that casted tessellating patterns and designs on the rooftops, it kept busy. This she was almost thankful for, always running around in endless circles but never once given the chance to say she had nothing to do and that this boredom was becoming tiring. Mrs. Potts. had become fond of her garden. She spent her time day dreaming in it, humming in it much too afraid to sing badly in front of her green friends; she spent her time reading here on the frayed hammock bolted between two walls. When it was time for supper or breakfast, she had to use the bathroom or catch up on some sleep that seemed like such a scarce resource these days, she would take the rusting metal key hidden always in her left coat pocket. Then she would turn the knob twice just to make sure the green room was secure and that no one could possibly enter. After carrying out whatever she had put her mind to, she would resume playing in her damp and wet cave of plants.
She moved across this sea of plants only the sandy ocean floor were patches of tile sewn together and instead of a cloudless sky was a glass ceiling. Walking down the rows and columns of plants, some tall and narrow others bushy and branching out of there pots and over the table’s edges she observed the area closely. Some of the plants had flowers blooming at their heads and others barren and robbed of beauty. Their shapes were diverse and some had grey ringlets that hung like her gray hair always over looking her eyes, which never seemed hopeful anymore. Her eyes were once as vibrant as the plants she was walking amongst but now shadowed by crust that crystallized on her eyelids and lashes. She combed the area, did whatever needed doing and fixed whatever broken.
Everything seemed to be crumbling in this cottage now days, always something needed repairing. But being alone in this old place secluded by a façade of pine trees and Colorado’s hilly mountains where her only companion were her thoughts and the starlight that casted tessellating patterns and designs on the rooftops, it kept busy. This she was almost thankful for, always running around in endless circles but never once given the chance to say she had nothing to do and that this boredom was becoming tiring. Mrs. Potts. had become fond of her garden. She spent her time day dreaming in it, humming in it much too afraid to sing badly in front of her green friends; she spent her time reading here on the frayed hammock bolted between two walls. When it was time for supper or breakfast, she had to use the bathroom or catch up on some sleep that seemed like such a scarce resource these days, she would take the rusting metal key hidden always in her left coat pocket. Then she would turn the knob twice just to make sure the green room was secure and that no one could possibly enter. After carrying out whatever she had put her mind to, she would resume playing in her damp and wet cave of plants.
