Evening Jazz
Across the room, my human hums along to some old jazz record.
Oh, that trumpet! It tickles my stems.
I can’t help but imagine myself in a smoky club, leaves swaying, basking in the slow shimmer of a saxophone solo.
My human’s talking to someone named “Jess,” and it’s juicy.
I lean in (metaphorically).
Something about a coworker who “borrowed” their lunch again.
The audacity!
If anyone tried to steal my sunlight, I’d wilt out of protest.
Tuna Turner slinks by, pretending she didn’t almost decapitate me earlier.
I give her the silent treatment. She flicks her tail in reply.
Classic Tuna.
The rain softens and the sun is lowering painting beautiful colors on the sky.
Just as I settle into the rhythm of trumpet, twilight, and gossip, a deep growl breaks the spell.
The vacuum.
My mortal enemy.
I freeze, mid-sway.
The beast roars to life, devouring dust and serenity alike.
My pot trembles.
My soil quivers.
I hold my breath (figuratively, of course). I don’t have lungs.
But if I did, they’d be screaming.
When it’s finally over, the silence feels sacred. I’m still standing.
A hero, once more.
From the couch, I overhear my human telling someone that Tuna Turner “finally behaved today.”
I nearly laugh myself out of my pot.
Behaved?
Please.
The claw marks on my leaf beg to differ.
The last light fades, and the room exhales with me.
Tomorrow, maybe, there’ll be more jazz. Fewer vacuums.
One can dream.