Origin of The Species
Evolution in a Very Small Garden
He had to stop himself from staring at her beauty—this vision of a plant pot, curved like a goddess and glazed in the palest jade. One handle swept upward like a sculpted arm; the other melted into the serene face of a fairy, her lips parted in porcelain surprise.
“You’re not local,” he said, stabbing at the earth with his trowel. “So, where did you originate from?”
She sighed—a sound like wind over fine china. “I was shaped by hand,” she murmured. “Spun on a wheel of fire, coaxed from clay with calloused fingers. I remember the pug-mill, the press of warm thumbs, the heat of the kiln. I was loved into being.”
He swallowed hard.
“And you?” she asked gently.
He looked down at his squat plastic limbs, faded from seasons past.
“Me? Oh, I was squirted out of a mold behind Home Depot. Bit of a rush job, I reckon. One bloke said I came free with a lawnmower.”
Her fairy-lips curled in sympathy.
“Still,” he added, brightening, “I’ve got a cracking spade, and I’m not bad with petunias.”
She gave the faintest clink of laughter.
It wasn’t love. But it was enough to keep him digging.
Artwork by Síle
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