You water it on Wednesdays. I watched you check your phone to know that.
There is a plant in the corner by the window, in a pot the color of a clay pig, and its leaves are shaped like big open hands. You bought it yourself. Nobody made you. That means somewhere in there, you still wanted a living thing to look after, the way I wanted a dog so bad I made a list of names.
You touch the dirt with one finger to see if it's thirsty. You turn the pot a little so the leaves grow toward the light even and not lopsided. You do this without even thinking hard about it, like it's easy for you now.
There is one leaf that went brown and crispy at the tip. You didn't throw the whole plant out. You just cut the bad part off with scissors and let the rest keep going. I didn't know you learned how to do that.
Do you still talk to it? I used to talk to everything. I told the plant on the windowsill about my whole day and I really thought it listened.
I like that you kept something alive. I like that you gave it the good spot, the sunny one, instead of taking it for yourself.
Are you the one who takes care of things now?
You are, aren't you.