Rooted

These days I feel like grapefruit flesh. Strange, perhaps, but for days it's all that comes to my mind when I think about how I'm feeling. Like my thick skin has been peeled, and the thin screen that surrounds each slice of me has been peeled, and all that's exposed of me is flaky grapefruit flesh, vulnerable. I'm not sure how I came to feel this way. I'm not sure why. I think I've been so wrapped up in my life that I've forgotten to root myself.

Facing my window, there's a home being built, almost from scratch. Since we moved here seven months ago they've been tearing down walls and rebuilding them. For some time, they had torn the roof off the backside of the house to build another story. The stairs from the first floor lead to the sky. The construction workers would walk up the stairs and onto the roof, that is now the floor of the second story. It's become one of my favorite past times, to pour myself a cup of tea and sit on my couch and watch the construction workers through my blinds. They measure wood and draw lines with pencils. They saw off segments, just enough so that the piece fits perfectly into the space they've made for it. And before they drill it to the house, they rub the surface several times as if preparing it for its new responsibilities. As I eat lunch, I watch them with sweat dripping off their faces as they all find a corner of the house covered in shade to sit in and open a can of soda or eat a sandwich. Two days ago, they built walls around the second story, and now its insides are concealed again. And half the workers are out of view. Only when they finished the walls did I notice a tree that had somehow grown right against the house, among all the construction. It's leaves reached the start of the second story. It resembled the Money Tree I have at home. The branches were covered with skinny green leaves. The day the walls were put up and the stairs no longer lead to the roof, I sipped my tea and looked at the tree. It looked happy. Every leaf in view was vibrant green. Not a single one wilted or even a faded yellow. As if it had been there all its life. Perhaps it had.


Today, there's only one worker here. It's near 5pm. He's been drilling all day. And the tree's gone. Not sure what happened. I stepped out during his lunch break and walked past the home hoping to catch sight of its leaves, only to be reassured that it's gone. And for a second I wondered, Did I imagine it there yesterday and the day before?