The vine began lithe and delicate, winding around the sapling we planted the week before you left.
(Who sets life in motion before walking away?)
It grew, it bloomed, and I should have cut it back, but there was poetry in how the flowers hid the choking. A weed is something that grows where it isn’t wanted, but I wanted it. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was asking for it, but maybe I forgot to keep the garden.
(Did I lock the door? Did I turn off the stove?)
Thing is, I watered it a couple of times.
We were watching a documentary about prison and you said it was too hard to think about the dehumanisation, how suddenly people stopped being people. You didn’t understand how anyone expected anything to get better with a system like that. I never assumed that was really anyone’s expectation.
Another time, you asked if I ever thought about leaving and I said I wouldn’t leave you. You meant both of us leaving here, together, moving to so