I don’t know where it came from. Don’t know what bundle it fell from. Don’t know whose hand had cut it. Don’t know what plant had sprung it. Don’t know why it was there.
But there it was, in the middle of the hall, right in the middle of my path where I had walked not even five minutes before without the obstruction being present.
It wasn’t much of an obstruction.
Just a stick, really.
The length of my hand from tip of the middle finger to a few knuckle lengths past the wrist. As thin as my pinky and just as (not) straight.
One end had been cleanly cut through a knot in the branch not too long before I found it. The other end had been snapped in between sprouts of twigs.
Just a cast off stick that fit so very neatly and playfully in my hand.
I had picked it up with initial intention to discard it because some of the residents are light enough and uncoordinated enough that stepping on the stick posed a very real hazard. But as I carried it down the hall towards the first available trashcan (in the bathroom), I found my heading altered into my office. Where I promptly placed the stick in my purse.
Don’t know why.
I guess we’ll see.