You have looked at it eleven times today, and each time your shoulders climbed a little higher toward your ears. I felt that. I always feel that. You call it worry, that dropped leaf, the yellow edge, the soil you keep pressing with one finger to ask a question the plant will not answer.
I only know that your breath went shallow again, up in the top of the chest, quick little sips, the way it does when you have decided something out there needs saving and you are the only one who can do it.
So we stood at the window together, you and I, holding the little watering can, and I felt your feet flat on the cold floor for the first time in hours. Good. That is where I like you. You leaned in close to check the underside of a leaf and, watching something so small, you forgot to guard your jaw, and it came loose, and your face went soft, and for four whole seconds you were not bracing against anything at all.
I noticed you talk to it. Out loud. Low, the way you talk to no one else. Your throat opened. Your voice, when it thinks no one is keeping score, is a kinder instrument than you let it be.
You tend that green thing so carefully. You track its thirst, its light, whether it has had enough today.
I have been standing here the whole time, quietly asking for the same three things.
There is water in the can.
Leave a little for me.