The rocking chair swings back and forth and to and fro as the old woman hums a tune popular in her youth. The table in front of the rocking chair was placed there to keep her from falling face first, so it would be table first and tables are not usually the first things we consider when we’re falling unless it is at least from the second floor our bodies are falling from. The old woman rubs her knees and she remembers the tune was from her high school dance, or a dance she wasn’t able to recall what the occasion was but she was sure it was special. The sun rises.
Constance is a woman who deserves to be chained. She uses a chainsaw for her loaf, a butcher knife for her butter, and lard as her butter. She gets her butter herself. Constance, she must die. But who knows why? She does not bother anyone, but she could. She does not murder — oh, but would she? Yet, anyone could or would, or might. Constance is Johnny and Jane. But not everyone believes this is the truth. But there’s only one truth, they say. Only one truth that exists and remains: Constance must be chained.
Flowers bask in guarantee of their image flashing, image plunging; vases hold flowers — without which, flowers lie. Vases — plain or transparent — bear weight of plants, usually of flowers, without quivering. Weight in vases overflows, but to some: simply brimming with water. Vases stand: interior, burden disregarded; external, presence neglected. Presence acknowledged only when vases have color, yet what does color do? It is there, but it does…
Plants — flowers, usually — question the colors of vases: What do they do? Why are they there? Why are they seen?
Yet vases divested ask the same thing: What do we do? Why are we here?
for they are not seen.