I wish you had told me

you didn't want the plant I gave you 

when you left. 

It wasn't just any plant, it was an indestructible one

perfect for your windowless office and 

no green thumb. 

We had laughed at the label together

that boasted: PLANT OF STEEL

I thought our friendship was indestructible and 

steel proof as well. 

I was not afraid to work through hard things in your windowless rooms,

you weren't afraid of mine.  

I think that's why we lasted for so long

until you left, wordless, and put me

in a predicament. 

The plant. 

There it was, pointedly abandoned on the small wooden table.

After time, I clutched it and hovered over the trash can

ready to discard it like you had done so,

in a path of totality. 

I was so bothered. 

Bothered by you.

Bothered by the plant being left. 

Bothered by the thought of the plant dying.

Bothered that I had to decide.

I brushed my thumb along the dusty leaves. 

The plant had a pulse. It was yours. 

I felt I was throwing our friendship away

I couldn't. 

Instead, I watered the plant.

I rotated the pot for balanced immersion in the sun.

I thought maybe we would rotate back into orbit.

No one talks about the tiredness of losing a friend. 

The sadness, most likely. The anger, perhaps. 

But not the tiredness. 

After I kept the plant, I was tired a long time. 

The next summer I repotted the plant alongside my neighbor. He knew nothing of the plant's history. 

He simply admired the new ceramic planter and scrounged up rocks for me to place at the base. 

He talked and talked. Somehow, it was comforting to have someone there to watch the transplant. 

I've moved since the repotting. 

The plant has nearly doubled in size, which it never did before.

The bother I once had has receded and left something else

that I discovered, tucked inside the tiny green canopy

that has just opened, gleaming in emerald this week. 

The indestructible plant and I 

still believe in you.