Collection of Recollection, Part VII

Monday, March 27, 2017 Comments Off

At the beginning of the year, my dear mother gave me a succulent.
It came in an intricate plaited pot, something that's not customary on other pot.
My mother told me that she would teach me how to grow it—how to see it bloom to its full potential.
It has been three months, and my plant is shriveling. Its leaves are rotting; what were once sturdy, flourishing with life and naively hopeful are now depleted of lush. All that I am left with is pale stem, currently withering from the lack of proper care.
I have tried to find ways to watch it blossom, not only as a decorative purpose, but as a living being. Yet, this trembling hands could never hold anything without breaking.

At the beginning of my life, my dear mother gave me a heart.
It came in an intricate figure, something that's not customary on other people.
My mother told me that she would teach me how to grow it—how to see it bloom to its full potential.
It has been twenty three years, and my heart is shriveling. Its faith is rotting; what was once sturdy, flourishing with life and naively hopeful are now depleted of lush. All that I am left with is pale hope, currently withering from the lack of proper care.
I have tried to find ways to watch it blossom, not only as a decorative purpose, but as a living being. Yet, this trembling hands could never hold anything without breaking.

succulent

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