windowsill

once every few months, Tyler could get his hands dirty. he never used gardening gloves- he preferred the wet soil against his skin where it could leech out all the bad in his mind.

the plants grew, regardless of the world around them. all Tyler had to do was water them sometimes, keep them in a window with lots of sunlight. and they were happy. oblivious to the hate and anger of the world, they climbed towards the sun, more slowly than he could see. sometimes he did try to see them grow. he stared at them for hours, hoping to be as oblivious to the outside world as they could be. those were some of the few times he felt happy.

the best times, though, where when the plants grew too large for their containers. he’d go to the kitchen and look for old jars that could fit them, sometimes taking armfuls to keep in his room. then he’d go outside and gather dirt, making sure it was dark, healthy, and moist.

to move a plant, you have to break it. the mass of threadlike roots has to be ripped for it to grow into new soil. Tyler sometimes felt bad hurting the plant, but he knew it had to be done for new life.

he’d always try to find the metaphor in it, but nothing’d ever felt right. nothing that serious felt right when the sun was on his neck and the grass was cool beneath his legs and feet. when the dirt slid between his fingers, all he could think of was holding the plant as softly as he could, cradling it between calloused fingers.

when the plants were safely in their new containers, he’d pat the dirt down and wipe them clean on the outside. then came the careful trek back to his room, where he would gently place them by the window that they so loved.

and then he’d watch them for the rest of the afternoon as they grew and repaired themselves, hoping he’d get to re pot them soon.

that is why there are plants on his windowsill. not because they make the air better or because they are pretty. it is to remind him of those rare days he gets to sit in the sun and think only of what is in his hands.