I was sitting outside once, on an old, gray chair, listening to how the erratic creaking of a wooden door slowly shredded the warm peace of the last summer days. Somewhere above me, a garrulous sparrow strove to explain to its consort some sort of an existential problem, which definitely didn’t regard me and which, anyway, couldn’t have been debated in any other language than theirs (you see, I think that every problem has a particular language of itself, in which it can be expressed and then solved).
I looked at the sky, stretching indecently blue above me, and my right hand, fallen by the chair, found, in its purposeless movement, a tiny weed, which, when touching my palm, birthed within my fingers an imperceptible tremor, almost like a giggle. I caressed its long leaves with an unexplainable impatience, realizing that the last time I had felt such a sensation had been when I’d made love (maybe too long ago). Then my fingers gave in to temptation, and pulling the weed from its root, brought it in front of my eyes, like a teenager presenting his lover to his parent for the first time. I don’t know what name bore the small plant – I was never good about the nomenclature of weeds. But I looked at its filiform being, feeling some sort of regret because, out of curiosity to see it, I had allowed laziness to drive me towards breaking it, instead of simply having bent upon it. The small herb was trembling lightly in the wind, in my hand, and without thinking too much I rubbed between my fingertips the tuft at its end, looking then with wonderment at the tiny white dots, lingering for a second on my skin, and then allowing themselves to be carried by the warm wind towards the dust on the ground. The weed, now seedless, continued to quiver.
The wooden door suddenly squeaked again, and I sharply understood that, in all this time, my curiosity and I were only the way chosen by the little plant to spread its offspring – and nothing more.
© Liliana Negoi