Hurry back, Fred
Eleven years after I found him on the street, three since he surprised me with strange alien flowers, Fred’s come full circle: He’s back to a stump in a pot.
He’d reached the ceiling, you see, and that’s quite a feat in our high-ceilinged Victorian apartment. It was time, past time really, to do the deed. I bought a saw, we had a talk, and it was done.
The walls have never seemed so white.