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The Elephant in the Garden
My world is small. That’s what Ian says. My world consists of our bed, the kitchenette with the hot plate, microwave, toaster and kettle, and the view from the window. He says it’s small enough to drive a person crazy.
Some days, my world is so grotesquely huge it overwhelms me and I have to get under the duvet to shrink it to a manageable size. Faced with too much stimulation — the traffic outside, the sudden shadows of birds on the window — I pull the covers over my head and lay there in the warm dark, listening to my loyal heart beat out a lullaby. That’s where I was the day I found out about the elephant.
“I’m home!” Ian announced as he came into the room and stomped over to the window. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong?” I threw off the duvet to find him frowning and squinting out of the window.
“You can’t see it from here.”
“See what? What’s happening?”
He stroked my hair, tucking the duvet back around my chin. “Don’t panic; nothing’s wrong. But there are elephants all over the city. Not real elephants, sculptures for some kind of art project. They’re big and bright and beautiful. I wish you could see them.”
He always wishes I could see the things he does, the things out there. “I’ll look online,” I said.