I’ve established roots in this chair like the dying fern staring back at my settled gaze. I pinched the tip of a frond, its edges rusted and meek, flaked off and sprinkled across the carpet like confetti. Conjectured by a fragile presence, but still rooted in place, I neglected provisions for the fern to thrive. For weeks I’ve watched it rot, staring, mocking and teasing the implications of death. Until hours ago the implications rotted too, but then the fern spoke. Its voice was soft as summer wind. Posing as a shout it came delivered as a mutter. I crept towards the impending corpse, “why speak now?” I questioned. “After weeks of neglect you choose this very moment! I have to go grocery shopping, have to go to the bank and deposit earnings. Why choose this moment?” The fern remained mute in defiance. I’ve been positioned before it ever since, aching to hear the voice again. Through peripherals the mail came, neighbors passed, strangers passed, the fern remained. Speak fern! Speak and suspend torture. Inflict the wisdom contracted through the stages of dying. I’ll stay here waiting, waiting, waiting…for nothing more than words to murder the stillness of death.