I often explain to friends that I fully matured at 12. Instead of a long and gradual process, my mind snapped into its current state at once, when I was playing on the concrete slab that was our playground in small town, Illinois.
I first heard it carried to me on the tree’s whispers. A sigh of exasperation, confusion, disbelief, and joy. My ears perked at the strange sound, and I breathed deeply for another clue of what it could be that had the trees so deeply gossiping.
The mysteries were piling up. My car’s gas had barely moved even though I used it daily, and I noticed that my electricity kept humming on smoothly with no sign of slowing. Even the food in the fridge seemed to stay fresh and ripe.
I put my suspicions to a test. I did not sleep. I did not eat. I didn’t clip my nails or wash my face, or do anything that fell under that category of human maintenance. Weeks went by, or at least I thought they did, but my stomach never rumbled and my eyes never grew heavy.
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Since no one had responded to me, I started to analyze the possibilities of what was actually happening to me. I wasn’t ready to accept the truth, so I stalled by sipping on my lukewarm coffee.
The Deva’s response wouldn’t leave my head. I realized the urgency of my situation, and that I might be this way, whatever it was, for a long time. As soon as I arrived home, I walked around to all of the nearby gardens to make sure and introduce myself. It became a daily habit for me to carry water to the plants and make sure they were thriving. They may be my only source of food very soon.