The Prayer Plant

It is already dark when I remember to water the prayer plant. I hadn’t noticed the lateness creeping in, immersed for hours in my writing. Meanwhile, she has folded her velvet leaves to expose the rose-coloured veins beneath, like palms coming together. (This is why they call her prayer.) She takes in the water like relief, soaking it in as though the thieving sun may still appear. I have also felt like this; like holding onto inexplicable desire. I look to where she points; into the spilled ink darkening the night and think, wherever we stand there is a sky above us; opening like an eye to the past. Aren’t we just like stars? A mirage of life that is destined to be gone? Tomorrow when the sky closes the blue lid of its eye, the prayer plant will be laid out once again. I will unfold from a dream where I walked in a circle wondering where did this come from and where is it bound? Still I am here, and, at least I have something to write about.

Written by Hannah Maggie