Warm sun shone on concrete floor stretching long between rows of greenhouse displays, mostly flowerless in this part of the vast inside garden, mother guiding us along between the tables while the hum of mist sprinklers met our ears some distance off, the kind faced owner standing back with his hands clasped behind him, smiling humbly while she shops. I drag my feet along with no direction of my own, partly wanting to be gone from this place, but the green leaves are a good comfort.
God granted me existence not long before this. Weight from my head and my shoulders pushes me down, strength from my legs holds me up. The pressure of the mist sprinklers on my ears holds my presence while the light goes through the moisture on my eyes. My eyes sit just well in my head, touch these leaves, then those, dotting corners of the jagged green with my attention. There is enough to look at not to get too bored. And so we walk to another table.
This, I decided, as my dry feet touched the dry socks, touched the ground and didn’t hurt, this right here, is now.
I remembered another quiet moment, one with different things and different people. I used to think that was now, but I was wrong. Two things can’t be now at once. This part here, this with all the leaves, this was now. How profound.
Would now last? Well I waited, and it didn’t go away.
I looked at the ground. It was still now.
Now I wasn’t bored at all.