a new leaf

I love it when the room is quiet and then cwack!, you hear it, the sound of a thin sheath splitting and a new leaf begins to unfurl. If you listen closely you can hear it stretch, small but resolute and cracking like vertebrae, slowly, slowly. A breeze from outside comes through from under the door like a whisper and the whole plant flutters, delicate as an eyelid, blink-and-you-miss-it. Lola watches a spider creep up the long neck of the monstera and we all hold our breath; the sun is kissing the new green leaf and the cat’s eyes are narrow and her tail is thwacking the floor and I’m rapt, tapped into a universe in which I am godzilla, peering into rooms in which I’ll never fit.