Snails on the Sidewalk

Aribah Ali, Canada

When the man, who was less a man and more an open wound, sauntered into the quaint flower shop at the edge of town, the roses began to blush.

A glint in his eye and a solemness to his step, he watches over those unfurling blooms, lifting each one’s head to that humming fluorescent light, brows furrowed and breath bated. They are each bashful and vain and beautiful, and wishing for the golden sun to spill onto their faces, a quiet plea to see the sky once more.

He will say words that are not meant for anyone to hear often. Best picked after rain, clings to rock like a lifeline, wishes to live longer - before turning on his heel and gathering bunches of bouquets in his arms. A peculiar assortment for a peculiar man, and gold coins fall to the counter with a faint clink. He leaves just as he came: as an open wound.

You have always been so particular in what you do, my darling - your clothes, your hair, your food - if it weren’t for such competency to fulfill these demands of yourself, I would call you a reckless and spoiled child. But then again, you have always done what you could to spoil me as well, so such flaws are forgivable, and to me, even endearing.

I have left the keys on the kitchen counter and they open the door that leads to the backyard, and once you stumble into the backyard, you will find a mosaic of everything we have built together.

Please do not fuss over your food and help snails cross the sidewalk. I bought a basket of oranges, so peel them as best you can with those blunt nails of yours, and do not be childish regarding plums (they will be sweet when you eat them for breakfast, I promise).

The peculiar man fusses with the collar of his coat, dress shoes on cobblestone, and a pout tugs at the corner of his lips when it does not align with his shirt. He wanders to the edge of town as the sun stretches towards the sky at noon, and the flowers in the windowsill, encouraged by its cosmic path, reach themselves towards that distant sun. Even though they are wilting.

He does not say much, or he says too much - quiet until there is something to be said of watering times, sunlight requirements, or fertile soils. He purchases three orchid plants, a handful of peonies, a dozen bouquets of lilies, mint and coriander sprouts. As an afterthought, he ransacks the store for their entire collection of sunflower seeds.

“If the woman you love has not yet returned your sentiments after all these gifts, I think it is for the best you leave her be,” the shopkeeper grumbles, a little awestruck by his sudden stroke of good fortune.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, you would be making a fool of yourself otherwise. You are an elegant type of man, albeit a bit strange. There must be another woman who strikes your fancy and will return such affections.”

“There is none.”

“Then I bet you all the money in my pocket that you will not be able to win her over.”

The peculiar man gladly takes on this bet, because, even if he does not have much, he has always been a man of his word. He empties out his pockets and then considers emptying his entire life’s fortune, before heartily shaking that shopkeeper's hand and slipping into the evening light.

My heart’s affection, here is the thing: I have always wanted to be a stone, but at the end of the day, I think that I am a tree, burrowing its roots into the forest ground and always looking towards the sun. I have tried to turn myself to stone, day and night, as I know you have, but we are old, old trees, and it is because I am a tree that I have had the pleasure of meeting you.

Do you know what a matriarch tree is? She looks over her loved ones in the forest, and her wisdom replenishes life itself. She does not overstay her welcome, and although she is much older than you and I, she has nourished the both of us. I think our story is similar to hers, at least in some ways, because although we ogle at her strength and size, really all she wants is to watch love grow. Isn’t that what we have always wanted as well?

Promise me to not leave as most fathers do. Plant and replenish the orange tree in our garden. Make sure it touches the sky.

“What can you give me to make a tree touch the sky?” the peculiar man asks the shopkeeper one day.

“Do you mean a good fertilizer?” he chuckles, amused by the look of seriousness across those delicate features. “I think you may be more of an expert than I am, in such matters. Unfortunately, there is nothing this humble store can do to achieve such a dream.”

The peculiar man furrows his brow, laid in the thorn of roses and moon cacti - sickly plants with an odd blossoming of color at their heads. He makes his daily purchases and nods goodbye.

It has been very long, he thinks to himself, the sun on his back and shimmering across those sidewalks. The days fall into one another - a theatrical sort of waiting by a most dubious and deceitful actor. He has become crueler, even after years of softening the spear’s edge.

It has been very long and he has grown very tired.

Ants fall into line, like little soldiers marching home, and he has the desire to squish them beneath his toe. He sees a snail, slow and pathetic, and places his boot to its shell.

“I have a running bet with a florist,” he says to no one in particular. “Please come home. I have a running bet with a florist and you know how much I hate to lose.”

Do you remember how you would wake me up at the break of dawn? I would grumble and mutter, and you would pull me to my feet and help me dress. I would always laugh when the breeze ruffled your hair out of place. You have always been so particular.

Hand in hand, or arm linked in arm, those pink hues of August faded to sunlight. I kneeled down once - twenty little snails trying to make their way across the sidewalk. I plucked them up from their shells, and they would recoil in fear, before gently dropping them onto the greenest of leaves. You huffed at first, and I told you that it would have taken them all day otherwise.

Then, you kneeled down with me and began helping those snails. I love more than you can possibly understand. Please keep helping snails cross the street.

“Be careful of pests,” The shopkeeper said. “Snails may gnaw away at those green leaves of yours.”

The peculiar man shrugs his shoulders.

“Have I won the bet regarding that woman you had decided to charm?”

“My wife is gone,” the peculiar man says with a hollowness he cannot hold.

“My wife is gone and I miss her dearly,” he says and she is a bloodstain he will never rid himself of. And he is just as he was: an open wound, now stitching itself together.

Aribah is in the second year of her undergraduate degree. She enjoys writing post-war stories with added elements of magical realism. In her spare time, she enjoys listening to music and using such as inspiration for her own stories and characters.