Putting down roots

You know how sometimes you're walking along, and you see two people in the distance, and something about the way they walk lets you know that they're together? It's as though if you just squint hard enough you might see a piece of telephone wire connecting them. I was walking home from the supermarket today and I saw you in the distance, with a piece of telephone wire connecting you to someone, and even though you were wearing different clothes and an unfamiliar hat I could tell it was you by the way you walked, one hip slightly higher than the other, each step slow and considered and slightly trepiditious.

On the way back I stumbled over George, who was lying on the footpath studying people's ankles. I asked him what he was doing and he said he was observing passers-by, counting how many stopped to help him up, but I think he just wanted to stare at the hard sky for a while. I asked him whether he had seen you and he said that you had passed by at three, trailing telephones behind you and taking slow and considered steps. He said that at four you were planning to turn into a tree.

Sure enough, when I got home, you were standing outside next to the clothes-line, holding your limbs up and shaking cherry blossom like dandruff all over the yard. I could hear the kettle boiling and it seemed shortsighted that you would put it on to boil before ceding the use of opposable thumbs. The dirt at your feet was cold and perturbed, and your soft eyes were fringed in moss. You stared at me sorrowfully, as sorrowfully as is possible for a tree. The kettle whistled, and I took it off the stove. I poured myself a scotch and reached for the axe.