Foliage by Jordan Towns
With her cup of tea nestled warmly in her hands, Josie admired the morning fog travelling through the mountains. The light, single-degree temperatures stung her lungs each time she breathed in too deeply. After finishing only the second page of the newspaper, Josie felt the unbearable heaviness of the latest words. As she sat there, overlooking a view some would never witness, she could feel the tenseness of the stories begin to spread to her aching joints.
The dull notes of her doorbell made her jump in fright. Setting her cup down, Josie forced herself onto her slow, shaky legs as she made her way inside. The green arms of her potted plants tickled her ankles and fingertips comfortingly as she passed them, the sound of her heart echoing down the hallway. She twisted the doorknob slowly, revealing her red-faced husband holding a large cardboard box.
“What took you so long?” George huffed, his knees creaking as he stumbled inside.
“I was reading the paper,” she replied, closing and locking the door.
“Why do you read that nonsense? All it does is scare you,” George groaned as he gently set the box down onto the wooden living room floor.
She watched as he straightened his spine, cracking his bones back into place. “It keeps me informed,” she shrugged as she studied the box before them. “What’s this?”
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, and airing out his woolly jumper, George smiled. “Happy birthday,” he murmured, as his lips pressed lovingly against her cheek.
She blinked, before she smiled. Her birthday. She had completely forgotten.
Using George’s arm as support, Josie slowly knelt down before the box. She noticed how big it was and the fact that it had numerous holes around its sides. She rose an eyebrow, looking up at her husband.
“You didn’t…”
George only smiled. “I thought you might appreciate some more company around here. When I saw this fella last week, I just knew he was yours.”
She beamed at him, flung open the two doors at the top of the box and peered inside. She gasped loudly, falling back onto her feet as her frail hands cupped her mouth. She tried to stop herself from crying, but the tears travelled down her wrinkles anyway. In a grasp as soothing as a mother’s touch, she reached into the box and picked up one the most beautiful plants she had ever seen.
“A Calathea Zebrina,” she beamed, admiring it, before placing it back down.
As George kneeled on the floor beside her, she wrapped her arms around him tightly. For minutes they quietly embraced each other amongst the dozens of potted greenery, smiling.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
