I realize as I'm sitting in the charcoal-coloured metal chair, sitting under a small, unidentified tree, wind chime tingling ringing metal notes, rusted from the rain passed, that the nature around my house has grown monstrously large and verdant in my absence. And here I am, indifferent to the change, smoking a white cigarette wafting smoke trails.
The cedar trees dotting the line between our house and the neighbours are nearly two whole stories high, and making their way to three. The ivy growing from the small garden at the side of the garage has grown explosively, reaching around the width of the garage and has almost crept up to the top of the second story windows. The maple tree in the front is bedecked in fresh green leaves, and another ceramic wind-chime slowly clanks in the strong breeze. Everything is larger.
So contrary to myself.
I feel like I've shrunk to half my size - a pathetic, effete worm. Ineffective and weak. Enfeebled and worn.
How time changes things.
Moss is growing between the brick walkway. I take another drag from my cigarette.
I wish the plants weren't mocking me, profiting from time, me atrophying from it.
And yet here I am, indifferent to the change, smoking a white cigarette wafting smoke trails.
