The potato sat on a window sill.
It was impressive how forgotten the potato was, set down midway through a conversation, the speaker’s hands needed to gesticulate, then replaced by another potato from the bag. The next day, it was noticed, but ithe potato’s potential eaters had hurried off, making a mental note to move it later only to lose that mental note behind the mental radiator. It was noticed again after a week, then two months, and now it had been sitting for almost half a year.
The potato sat through the passage of time. The sun rising in the morning, the first rays hitting the potato before they reached the coffee pot, the refrigerator, the people not yet risen. It loved the light, stretching little fingers out from its eyes to reach up and over, pressing against the glass to absorb all it could.
The potato watched the leaves outside turn colour, braced itself for the cold that never came. At night it would cool a little. Later at night, it would became cooler still, but never truly cold.
The first snowfall meant less sun, but still no freeze for the potato. It sat on the window sill, waiting, withering a little, shriveling like an old man left in a retirement home.
Finally, on the day before Christmas, the potato was noticed again. It was picked up, its fingers torn off, its body washed, then mutilated. Thrown in a pot to boil, mashed and mixed with others of its kind, some garlic, and some butter. Laid out, to be slathered with gravy and forced down throats, then broken down in acid before an undignified excretion.