By Mir Yashar Seyedbagheri
A plant lies on concrete. I pick it up. Leaves are withdrawn, hiding from the sky. As if growth is too much to ask.
I don’t blame it.
I should take this home. Even if Mother finds plants saddening now. Too cheerful, too vibrant, she says.
Nancy, my big sister, hated leaving things behind. She saved the smallest articles, except herself. Plants, coins, so much.
Psychiatrists prescribed attitudes. Activities.
The world demanded excess. Take care of your brother, become a wife, subordinate dreams of creating art.
I pick up the plant, feel its weight. I will not let the plant wilt. I’ll take it home, keep it in the brightest spaces. I’ll keep it in the living room where Nancy used to teach me to dance. On the back patio. I never told Nancy I loved her, never told the psychiatrists to fuck off. But how I love this little plant.
Live, I whisper. Live.
Yash Seyedbagheri’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.