A short sketch (2 minute read)
Every time the clouds thicken and droplets cascade from the sky, my little friends emerge from the darkness, not walking or crawling like animals but unfolding like mist. They are the ones who deposit trails of slime as if needing to retrace sluggish steps, who act like home isn’t on their backs but a place to return to. Their progress is static, an animation flipbook held in place, still and silent and calm.
One snail claims its throne, a rusted ironing board long left for dead. Its single bumpy appendage soaks in the heavy air like a sauna foot. If it had a voice, it would say to me, “I am not like Jerusalem’s dainty yellow flowers with their slender necks and green clover. I don’t bloom in the light and shrivel at night. I… am a quiet thing.”
Snails know that not everyone or everything shines in the sun. Its the shrouded moment and pitter patter of the earth’s tears that brings them out of their shells and lets them know it’s okay to move again.