By ten that morning, she had heard enough news to dislike people she had never met and answered enough emails to resent several she knew. Was this all her life was? Was this what she’d struggled to achieve? She felt withered. This was not the life she had set out for. Not by a long damn shot.
As she turned to return to her laptop with a fresh cup of coffee, her sleeve caught the dead plant on the kitchen breakfast bar. Dry leaves scattered onto the floor, and the plant took a suicide leap.
“God damn it.”
Her nerves shattered with the pot.
Another thing to do. Something else she had fucked up and needed to fix. At least this was something without an office staff cc’ed all to hell.
“If you would…please pay extra attention to…this was a great inconvenience….”
So much for a master’s degree when an error can be what is “great.”
Pay was necessary. But the position after all these years was still the pits.
She swept the shards, dirt, and bunch of dried-up roots and vines into the dustpan. She carried it outside to throw away. It had been there for months, reproaching her between the dish soap and the coffee tin.
Today, at least, she could finish something.
She tipped it toward the bin.
A thin stem brushed her wrist.
She stopped.
Near the base, beneath the brittle stalks, two small leaves had unfolded. One still wore its crease.
“Well. You might have mentioned this sooner,” she said to no one but herself.
She set the dustpan with the plant on a porch step and crouched beside it.
The root ball still held the shape of the broken pot. As she eased the roots out of their contorted position, she found there was still some living left to do.
She went to the garage for the bag of soil.
There was a smaller pot somewhere. She remembered seeing it tangled in the ivy next to the outdoor shower.
Finding it took a while. She stepped in the mint and breathed in.
She worked on the back step, loosening the roots with her fingers. A little wind moved through the trees. Somewhere nearby, a bird repeated a phrase of its song. Another answered. They flew closer together.
Her phone vibrated on the kitchen windowsill.
But she had soil in both hands.
She heard it chime as someone left a voicemail. It would wait.
When she finished, the plant looked comically small, pot and all.
“Starting over.”
She watered it lightly, then carried it to a place with gentle morning light.
Only when she stood did she notice the stiffness in her knees.
Her coffee would be cold.
She went inside, warmed it, and reached automatically for her phone.
Then she looked through the window.
The pot stood beside the empty chair.
She took her coffee outside.
For a while, she sat with dirt beneath her nails, listening for the bird to sing it again.
