[the song] The first rays of sunlight broke through the gaps on the blinds and lazily fell on the sleeping face of Vincent. He was awoken before his eyelids could muster enough strength to flutter. Old before his age, no one could have looked at Vincent and believed the number 27; yet buried deep inside that dilapidated shell was a mind as sharp as any blade that was ever forged. Sure, time had turned it rusty around the edges, and the handle was worn to the grip; but it still cut, and every cut hurt. But not for much longer. Vincent was dying. Life was seeping out of him more rapidly every time he drew a breath. He never knew if each time he closed his eyes, it would be his last. He was just grateful that, at least so far, he always found the answer in the morning. This morning was different, however. The sunlight didn’t burn his skin as it used too. Perhaps his senses were failing. But still, he sensed it. The song. Softer than smoke, thinner than a distant memory, yet it cut deeper into his senses than a bite of winter. At first, he thought he had imagined it. No one would be singing at this hour, nor was there anyone anywhere around him. He lived in solitude, without family, without friends, with many foes - or so he thought. It was easier to imagine them as foes, than to admit that he could never sync to their frequencies. All he needed was his plants. To the untrained eyes, his flat must have look derelict and overtaken by nature. There were plants everywhere, overgrowing and overwhelming every surface and air space that could be taken. Sitting on the windowsills, draping over furniture, standing along the walls, hanging off the ceilings, trailing from the shelves, the thriving branches, leaves and vines left little space for the sole human lying half-dead on the bed. Vincent, at some point in his life, started nurturing his first pot of herbs, and it grew from there. Unknowingly but willingly, the plants started to replace the faces in his life, until everyone has faded and only their names were left, carefully and calligraphically written on the pots. He treated the plants like they were humans. And why not? They were living things, breathing, eating, being his friends; only they were a lot less hassle and trouble. Truthfully, they were a lot more understanding of his stories, and a lot more defiant of his wrath. They never talked back to him, never misunderstood him, never abandoned him. After all, “silence” and “resilience” was so closely resembling each other, they should have just been one. Vincent appreciated that. He knew he didn’t fit into this world. He wasn’t “above”, or “below”, just “out”. Like a stray puzzle piece that always caused confusion and annoyance, until it was ruthlessly disposed. He wasn’t fine with that, of course - Vincent wasn’t a saint. He learnt to accept and move on after so many times his displeasure and tantrums went unnoticed and unaddressed. Nothing ages a man like disappointment, and nothing matures a man like abandonment. Vincent had both, and based on those, he made his choice of company. When he wasn’t nursing, talking or shouting at his plant friends, he was singing to them. He liked the old melodies, and he knew they did, too. The raspy rustling of leaves and creaking of branches strangely blended into the tunes, like they were joining in, or clapping as he had imagined a thousand times in his childhood dream of becoming a singer on stage. Music was his life source, it flowed through him like the sticky sap that rushed through the green cells that made his friends what they were; and by singing to them, he was giving them his life force. The plants, like him, weren’t all perfect. Oh they were perfect in their own ways, in his eyes, but not in the commonly conforming sense of the word. Vincent’s patchy collection of friends consisted of all sorts: some he bought, some he grew; some he picked up on the roadside, dying and wilting as their previous owners abandoned them there; while some were gifted to him, back when the faces hadn’t left his life. What Vincent loved most was the ability to create new plant friends from what he got, and even if some died, their propagated offspring would quickly replace and perpetuate their companionship. He couldn’t have done that with humans, of course. Once they were gone, or once he has pushed them out of his life, they were gone for good. Vincent recited their departures a thousand times in his songs, and his plants never judged him or his ego, nor did they ever called him selfish and narcissistic. Now, on his death bed, his voice was gone, even his breath barely made a sound. Yet Vincent was sure he sensed the song. Softer than smoke, thinner than a distant memory, yet it cut deeper into his senses than a bite of winter. Vincent knew it wasn’t one of his melodies. He wasn’t the one singing it. They were. It was the sound of a thousand leaves rustling in the air, a million roots cooing through the soil, and a billion cells breathing together. Vincent’s slowing heart synced its beats with the chlorophyll that was glistening in the sunlight, and to the sap that was flowing in every stalks. He didn’t hear the song, he felt it. “Sleep tight, our loving Vincent For when you wake up, a new shoot might have broken out of its case Like a thousand times before, the seeds you germinate And the roots that penetrate the soil You wake to a new life In a brand new world And the new songs you’d sing Will be like none we’ve ever heard. Since the day we appeared from your love, To the day our roots rot in the ground, When our stalks no longer make new spouts, When our leaves die and our branches snap, When our calyxes stop hiding new buds When our chlorophyll is bleached by shadows, When we grow old, You grow with us. Giving us all your care and trust All your love and pain We are all the same We hear you and you feel us. Now you lay there, ready to rest Sleep tight, our loving Vincent It won’t be the same, it will be different Like no sleep that you’ve ever had. It won’t be happy, it won’t be sad It will just be silent, silent like a tree And you, singing man, you will forever be free As any of us Your roots will grow deep into the earth Your branches will reach up to the sky To breath, to rustle, to shine To photosynthesise To live. Our loving Vincent, now sleep You gave us our first breaths of life Now your bark flakes and your sap runs dry Let us give you your last.” Softer than smoke, thinner than a distant memory, yet it cut deeper into his senses than a bite of winter. The ringing of notes vibrated through Vincent’s nervous system, and escaped as his last breath circulated through his lungs and left via his lips. Though his last shadow of a smile never did. *** “Hey Luna, have you heard from Vincent lately?” “No Nathan. Last I heard, he was in a vegetative state.” “Whoa! For real?!” “Kidding! He was just locking himself up at home or something. Maybe he realised that no one wanted him and he should just get out of the way. He went off the social network grid, so that was all I could have figured. But was he ever not in a “vegetative” state though, you know, his plants and all that…“ “That was a shit pun! Come on, do better!” “Piss off, it was perfect! Do you want to get lunch together? I’ve gone vegetarian lately and I’ve found these gorgeous veggie restaurants just around the corner from ours.” “Sure. Ask Winnie and Ty, too, if you see them. I’ll swing by at 12, how’s that?” “Sure.” © Viet Dam











