Brown, broken cylinders alongside white and black pebbles run-up to the green towers reaching towards the ever-constant sky. Giant legs spindle white thread over the translucent, green stairsteps winding up as if to brush up against the turbines which lay stationary on most days, especially today when the only light cascading down is from the artificial, twin suns placed above the mountains of brick. The papered-over tissue, layer upon layer of cotton on dust on cotton, envelopes the weaver and clears away its tapestry, although it is most likely better this way as the force caused by the impact of stopping flight rips away at the connection between the stairs and their banisters. The hardwood floor is always cold on cloudy days, but in this picturesque, Chicago suburb where the flowers bloom long past the end of spring and the grass grows into a mature green by the beginning of April it might seem impossible for this to be true, and yet it is quite obvious that it is in the way that foot meets the floor, or rather its quick removal.

The earthquakes recede into another corner of this world, enough for the towers supporting the stairs lined with banisters to stop shaking as the whirlpool in the other room subsides into the floods racing through the pipes below. The breeze billowing over the upstairs landing sways between the shuttered light, a kind of pushing and pulling along something that can neither be pushed nor pulled. Every week to week and a half the surroundings bounce with the rise and fall of feet and morph from a stationary couch with pillows long underused into the blurred lines between hallway, living room, and kitchen before settling on an island of granite, a kind of waiting room before yet another movement across the empty river and into the storm where for ten seconds water sprinkles down, heavy and concentrated, bending and twisting the command of the pronation and supination beneath the skin’s lining. The droplets surge through the open pores, washing down the cracks and crevices lining the surface, and as the depth increases, they reach infinitesimal tips of hairs along the roots only to be sucked inside. The sunlight is especially strong in the kitchen with the absence of blinds, and as the clouds subside the metallic sink shines brilliant hues of reds transcending blues, but that’s no matter as there is something growing, reaching towards the window, spiraling into the elusive embrace of the sun’s rays.

The granite countertop is lined in paper towel; uneven rings seep out of the pots, sinusoids brushing up against trochoids and strophoids, and as water meets towel which meets a hot, mature, afternoon air it begins to vibrate faster until it has enough energy to rise into a vapor. However, this is not the water of importance as this is merely the excess, unnecessary water, a consequence of the language barrier between human and plant, caretaker and care receiver. The water of importance is well on its way through the roots, waiting in anticipation to ebb and flow through the stems and reach an illustrious leaf, to partake in the growth of life. After an hour or so, when the towels are dry and the soil’s saturation takes its fateful dip below 100% the plants are moved back to their respective rooms: the coffee table on the living room below the ceiling fans, the end table in the TV room, the centerpiece on the dining room table. There they wait and grow, until next week or maybe even the week after depending on the number of cloudy days and whether the sun can reach these tables set up about the house. Water the plants, done.