The tree outside my window waves a piece of itself at me. I go to wave back, existential questions fight one another to my tongue, then wonder what the neighbours might think. When leafy limbs extend striated fingers to you in mesmerising circles it’s time to reflect on your raison d’etre in privacy.
I close my eyes and the outline of the tree burns bright under my lids then fades into a cluster of brightly coloured dots. The cosmos of my brain. I search for meaning, play dot-to-dot as it were, but no 3D Magic Art picture of life’s truisms are exposed. Instead I have adopted a strabismic squint and jump when the washing machine beeps its finale.
I winch the Hills Hoist up too high and hang the washing on the line like I am attempting to yoga myself up to god. I stretch my fingers and present them as an offering. No seraph plucks them from my hand. I remain intact and slightly disappointed I was not dismembered by a celestial spirit. I lower the clothesline and hang my bras in a neat row on the inside to hide them from my neighbour’s view.