I pass by the plant every day. I'll knock on the door, say that I'm here for her, wait a minute, and leave, because I know she won't answer. Today, I stay a minute longer, because the plant is dying. 'Don't do this to me.' It's leaves are frail and wrinkling, like old age had fallen too suddenly upon the seedling. 'Don't break her promise.' I don't want to cry but I do, right here in her junkyard of a front lawn, hands pressed against the window behind which a potted plant wilts. 'I want you to stay strong, even if she can't.' It's a selfish thought, I know it, but I also know that the pain of seeing it dying, the pain of that certainty, would hurt more than a blind eye. The last time Sarah let me in, I gave her this plant. I had put it on the windowsill, and told her to look after it. 'I need you to stay strong...' I think about the vertical scars on her arms. I think about the empty bottles of medication. I think about the stench of the alcohol. I turn away and walk back home. If the plant stays alive, then I can lie to myself for another day, and tell myself 'She's okay.​'1036Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡecXJrd3iSg
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