One day she brought home some shells.
Old discarded ones, the snails all packed up and moved out. Abandoned in the various gardens and sidewalks of the city streets. Like a fingernail or stray bit of hair, biological refuse.
This was before the cold set in. Before the frost. She told me that the snail sightings were becoming few and far between. That before long they’d stop all together. Until the first rains of the Spring that is. When she could once again resume her position as a relocator.
She carefully washed the shells, and one by one they were rinsed under the tap. As she got to the last one, the biggest one, there was movement.
“I thought it was dead!!”
She placed it in the soil of a peace lily that sits behind our living room couch.and there it’s stayed.
We call her Eve.
Several days passed and she brought another one home. Telling me as she lowered it into the plant that she feared Eve would become lonely.That she read that they do better with company.
I often come home to find her leaned over the back of the couch gazing into the plant with a flashlight, admiring our own personal little ecosystem.
She remarks on their movement; slow and measured. Smooth and graceful. It’s like time slows down when you watch them. The haze of the day and the fury of the rest of the world just seems so far away.
the commuters and the complainers
the ungrateful and the impolite
Now all quiet, drifting by at a snails pace.