The Right Conditions

The light was perfect.

She'd checked the soil three times that week.

The window faced south.

The apartment held

the kind of silence where plants

are supposed to thrive.

I watched a leaf brown at the edges,

still attached,

still technically alive,

just inward-turning,

curling into itself.

It fell while she was in the kitchen.

No wind.

Just the leaf's own surrender.

She'll find it tomorrow.

She'll blame herself.

She'll water it more,

will move it to another corner,

will do all the right things

to a plant that's already

made up its mind.

And I'll watch her the way I watched the leaf—

unable to say that

the right conditions

mean nothing.