The soil pulled away from the edges

The soil pulled away from the edges.

Cracked. Gray as old concrete.

Three weeks I'd forgotten it was there.

Your initials scratched into the bottom—

when did you do that? I didn't ask.

You were leaving anyway.

Said I'd forget to kill it.

Which meant: it will survive you.

The spines were still firm. Color still green.

And then the yellow flower.

Small. Impossible.

Bloomed anyway.

I didn't give it anything.

Not water. Not light, really.

Just corner of the living room.

Just the indifference of a person

who can't remember

if three weeks have passed or three days.

But it knew what to do.

Knew it without being told.

The flower came from somewhere

I wasn't.

I'm still looking at it.

Not watering it. Not moving it closer to the window.

Just watching the thing

that didn't need me to survive

actually survive.

And I think about your initials down there,

scratched into terra cotta,

a kind of hope that I'd keep it.

A kind of knowing that I wouldn't.

A kind of being right about both things

at once.