his plants

He already has decided: he will only keep the pictures. Everything else will go; everything else must go. The tables. The end table. The lamps, the dishes, the secretary. Nothing there of any import or real value. He’ll make a few hundred bucks, if that. It’s time, he has decided, to let loose everything. Anything that harkens back; anything that weighs down. Everything takes up too much space. Except for the pictures. But, even then, he’s not sure about the frames. Keep them framed, the pictures? Or store them otherwise. The ficus trees, too. Stretching out – one -- awkwardly. Gnarled and cut back, the other. They need better homes. Someone to talk to them. He hauled them from place to place for 20 years. Maybe more. No more traveling. He’s made these decisions. Over time. Bit by bit. He’s in that place, now. He’s alone. He doesn’t need these things. Someone else might. He heard a car in the driveway. The girl who lives in the back. Her name is Lorrie, he thinks. He’s not sure. Maybe she wants the plants. He’ll ask her, tomorrow. They can stay one more night, at least.