Jerga

“A gift,” he said. He brought in these two sprouts. They were sunflowers, he told me. I thanked him despite already having one in our room. He said that the isolated sunflower wouldn’t be so lonely now. He gave them a shared pot and sat them before the eldest flower. He would continue to care for them each day since then, but never the eldest. He let me tend to it myself. I didn’t complain until it became the only thing he’d do.

By winter, he had taken more night shifts. He told me he was saving up for our first Christmas. I wanted to believe him, especially when his excitement to come home would fade. The man I knew before was slipping away every night. 

“Eres valiosa,”  he said to ease my worries. It was enough that I stayed home every morning, but I couldn’t bear it anymore. He loves me, he says. 

“Then why do you leave me?” I asked. He changes the subject—a skill I think he’s perfected. He tells me how the eldest flower has been wilting. I’m only surprised he’s noticed. 

“The flowers,” he said. “I’ve been thinking of putting them outside.” We were eating then, a rare occasion. I’d made him a bean stew with diced carrots, beef, onions, and tomatoes. He took another bite of his spoonful and looked me in the eye, awaiting my response. I nudged my shoulder and crossed my legs. I can feel his still gaze on me as if I am a new sight to see. I think he sees my unkept hair and my stained Luismi tee. 

“I can handle it,” I said, looking down. I remembered the flower had been wilting for months now. Spring was approaching then, so I hadn’t paid it much attention. But if he were to put the flowers outside, there was no way he’d ever step foot inside again. “I’ll see a florist tomorrow.  I promise,” I tried to make out a smile. He shrugs, setting down his spoon. I watch as he walks over to the sink to set down his dishes. He doesn’t wash them.

The night, like each night, I lay awake alone and cold. I think the moonlight speaks to me the way she seeps in through the blinds. Maybe she even sings to me. I haven’t heard a promising voice in so long that anything would sound endearing—even his. 

The flowers on the window sill flutter, their leaves shaking from the room’s air conditioning. The third one, the tallest, looks the most eerie. Its leaves have mostly turned brown but its buds and petals are bright, almost vibrant. Still, it wilts every day. There’s no point in cutting it loose since it’ll grow back next spring. I’ll keep my promise, to him. I didn’t lie. There’s a bodega down the road that sells flowers and herbs. I’ve stopped by once to prepare an incense for my anxiety. It failed, but the smell still lingers. It’s calming, in a way. 

Somehow, I shut my eyes and my mind goes blank. I wish he was here, but I stopped wishing months ago. Should I be worried? I worry every day. Does he think about me as much as I of him? He’s never called me, not since January. What about me?

The sun doesn’t stop rising. I pace down the aisles, vacant from my mind. A woman comes up to me, her auburn hair tied in a messy bun. She walks at such a speed, that I feel we’ll collide at any moment. Luckily, her purple tennis shoes stop her in her tracks. “Nina,” her nametag reads. I mouth the words, not noticing her attention set on me. 

“She’s so pretty,” Nina says. I look down at the potted plant in my hand, almost forgetting I’d brought it. 

“Oh,” I started, “thank you.” I fidgeted with my fingers, my eyes wandering to the adjacent shelves filled with seeds, fertilizer, and tools. Nina seemed to follow my eyes as if she were being helpful. The silence waned for another minute. As I stood there, she continued to smile. Then, she speaks. 

“Plants sometimes just get sick,” she said. She motioned towards the plant. Hesitantly, I handed her the pot. Our fingertips touched during this slight transaction, but I paid it no mind. She took her left finger and touched the soil. She then tried to scoop out the plant itself. “There it is,” she said as if making a revelation. “You see this?” She pointed to the darkened roots. 

“So?” I felt myself lean in. 

“So,” she said, “healthy roots are usually white. Right here, you see this mucky, black color. You need just a change of soil, a new base.” I nodded to her suggestions, trying to make sense of it. “We call it abscission.”

“Is there a fertilizer I could use?”

“You could. But a change in soil would be just as efficient.” She leaned into me, her hand slightly cupped to her mouth, “And cheaper.” I smiled and nodded. Our interaction had been much more fruitful than I thought it would be. This day hasn’t been poor so far. 

“Thank you,” I retrieved my plant, now set back into its potted position. 

“Of course,” she laughed. “Eres valiosa.” She cocked her head, smiling the way she did before, and turned around to go back to her post. But I stood still. Reminded of those words again, it’s like my body jerked at its signal. 

“You…” I whispered. 

“Yes—?” 

***

There was an endless pounding, throbbing. The pain wouldn’t cease the same way it wouldn’t locate itself. Alarms blared throughout my mind, and curtains of sweat dropped from my forehead. I stumbled to get to my door, unsure why the broken pot was still in my hand. The key slid through the door, jagged at first, but successfully nonetheless. 

I managed to slam the door behind me and raced upstairs, to my—our bedroom. My hands shook viscously as I tried to grab the handle. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I said, thousands more apologies soured through my mind. 

Then, I stopped. What if someone had seen? What if someone had heard? Does it matter? Is it even safe to be here? What should I—?

A car horned. My neck ticked, my eyes starting towards the window. I scrambled over, eager to get fresh air anyway. And then I saw him. My sweet boy. 

The sunflower that stood on the window sill trickled its leaves on the newfound air. I eyed that yellow glowing color, envious of its serenity. So, I took what was mine. 

He walked just in my view, and without thought, my arm extended out of the window and the pot was no longer in my hands. 

Author

Annetta Barry

Artist: Ruhshona Rahmatova – “Sorrow”