A Project for Better Journalism chapter
Follow us on Twitter @lakewood_times
Creative Corner

“Greenhouse” by Caleb Waterwash

Greenhouse

 

She prefers to be at work over home. She needs to be here over home. Anywhere but home would suffice, but work is the best. It is always so quiet in the greenhouse, in comparison to the shouting and rustling of home. It didn’t pay very well since she was essentially doing only a fifth of someone else’s job, but it was worth the environment. The bright spring light pierced through the glass building giving life not only to the plants that resided there, but all who entered. It was as if light held a strange energy within it that boosted the spirit and could only be extracted through the filtering ability of the houses glass walls and ceiling.

She breathes in deeply as she walks freely down the aisles taking in the clean, earthy, chlorophyll filled air. She rolls up the sleeves on her white blouse, of which is mostly covered by her simple black gardening apron. Then proceeds to tie her hair up. She’s never so comfortable at home.

“Hello all of my lovelies!” she exclaims arms up from her sides. A wide, almost excessive, smile runs over her face that emphasizes the bags under her bright and lively eyes.

She reaches the end of the house and begins filling the watering cans for the smaller plants. The bursting sound of water hitting the hollow metal can fills the room without managing to break its true silence. With a few squeaky turns the water stops. She grabs for the cans then effortlessly carries them to the first row of plants. When she had started she could hardly carry one of them. It hasn’t occurred to her how much stronger she has become: both physically and in character.

She starts watering the individual plants, making sure to have kind words for all of them.

“How are we today?”

“Oh look you’re bulb is forming! How exciting.”

“You look extra thirsty today, how about some more than usual?”

They are her best of friends. Her kindest friends. Her only friends. She steadily makes her way down the aisles and aisles of metal cross shelves and plastic pots; her footsteps echo as she goes. Every now and then the cans will need to be refilled resulting in the process stopping then restarting again and again. She could do this for a thousand years and never return to her home.

Google+