The dictionary gave us whispering (XURXULATU) and edible roots (JATARBI). We could have gone with politeness and consideration, but secrets seemed like a more appropriate choice. And the first thing that crossed our minds were screaming mandrakes.
Some people sing to their potted plants. But the protagonist of this story would never whisper her secrets to a plant. Because she is not a fool, she knows that the only way to keep a secret is not to trust anyone with it. But the world is full of people that sing to their plants, it’s full of people that need to share their secrets with someone else. And the little girl is glad that she gets to live in such a world, because nothing is more entertaining than revealing other people’s secrets.
The little girl has a garden, but all her plants are in pots. Because she discovered that distance, that separation makes some plants talkative. If their roots shared the same earth, they would never talk to one another. But being trapped in those pots makes them feel lonely, and desperately they look for something to talk about, for a way to connect.
The little girl pulls up a plant. Its roots begin to whisper all the secrets other plants have shared with it. And once the little girl has heard enough secrets, she takes a bite, she eats the plant, roots and all. Because she doesn’t want to let anyone else have fun revealing those secrets.
Sometimes I wish I were a potted plant. I wish my owner sang to me. Don’t get me wrong, I know so many secrets that I don’t know what to do with them. But no one sang them to me. I overheard them, from people passing by. From people that never spared me a glance. That still gives me power over them. But I just wish that someone would confide in me.
I’m alone. All alone. I’ve looked, but my roots haven’t found anyone else. I’m the only tree here. But I won’t sing. No, I won’t. I won’t reveal the secrets that I know. No. No. No. I know what happens to those plants. To the ones that listen to songs just like mine. I know that they are uprooted, pulled by their hair, as if they were mandrakes. That they are eaten, without remorse, to reveal the secrets they know. And I refuse to carry that blame with me. I won’t sing. No. No. No. Loneliness won’t make me seek someone else out. It won’t make me sing.
Sure, I know many secrets, but they are all useless. They belong to people I don’t care about, they are just things that I have heard. I want to connect with another plant. I long for something meaningful. All I want is for someone to know who I am. I want to get to know someone else. I don’t want a common enemy. I don’t want that type of closeness. If our songs can only convey secrets, that don’t belong to neither of the plants involved in the conversation, that don’t belong to neither of the plants trying to feel less lonely, I would rather keep quiet.
I still haven’t decided which secret I will share. There are so many, and all of them are important to someone. Not to me, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t deserve a song. I was taught that important things had to be shared. That the sun shouldn’t be hoarded, and neither should rain. I was taught that nice plants share. And that is what I will do. Because I want to be loved. I don’t want to be alone anymore.
With secrets such as this, it’s no wonder that mandrakes don’t exist. I wouldn’t kill to protect such a silly secret, I wouldn’t even sing to protect it. I wanted something that would be worth dying for. I wanted to hear a mandrake’s song and live to tell the tale. I wanted the danger and the wonder of a fairytale. But this secret is too everyday, it’s too bitter for that. It tastes like disillusion. And that part of me was never supposed to be the one that died.
Finally, a secret that’s worth all the bitter roots I’ve had to eat.
There is nothing better than knowing that I am not alone, that I am not the only one that makes mistakes. I just wish that I didn’t have to eat these roots to know that. That I didn’t have to root through other people’s secrets to find the comfort that I need.
I don’t know why I keep doing this. I don’t even remember the last time that knowing a secret made me smile.
Sing me a secret. You know you want to. You feel lonely, and I am here to be your best friend. Sing me all your secrets. It will make your loneliness go away.
Look at my roots. Does that seem fair to you? I know that you keep most things close to your heart, tightly bottled inside. But I am not you. This is not the way to make me keep your secrets. If you wanted to sing your secrets to someone else, you should have caged a bird. They come from an empty sky. Birds are used to keeping things close to their heart lest they disappear.
If I were a tree with deep, deep roots, no one would talk to me. Living in this small pot is a fair price to pay. For all the songs that no one else would sing to me otherwise.
Be quiet. I don’t care for your songs. If you weren’t so selfish, I would have birds singing for me every morning.