Gerald Did Something

October 23rd. There is a new leaf on Gerald.

I noticed it this morning while the coffee was going, I wasn't even looking at him directly, just passing the shelf, and something in my peripheral vision registered as different. Paler green. A small unfurling at the end of the longest vine. I stood there for a full minute before I did anything else. I have had this plant since before the stoneware pot, before the collapsed bowl moved to this shelf, before the cord was on the windowsill. Gerald has been in this apartment longer than most of the things I think of as permanent. And he still does this, puts out a new leaf like it's nothing, like it's just the next thing that happens.

The leaf in question. Unreasonable.

The prints are still leaning against the kitchen wall. The cord's shadow is doing its October thing, long and reaching toward the letterpress card. Carol's small object is where it's been. The collapsed bowl is where it's been. Everything is where it's been. And then Gerald, quietly, without consulting anyone, adds a new leaf to the arrangement. It is the one thing in this kitchen that is still openly in the middle of something.

The part where I stop and just stand here for a while.

I don't have anything more profound than that. It's a good leaf. I'm glad I noticed it.