Pothos on the Windowsill

The blue plastic cup I use for watering sits beside the kitchen sink, a few drops still clinging to its rim. It is the first thing I see each morning when I walk in, before the kettle. I am forty-two, I work in a university library, we lived together for six years and it has been five months since we split. The small flat stayed with me, along with a pothos in a pot on the windowsill. The poem below came to me one evening while I was pouring water for it.

The woman selling it said
pothos is easy to keep,
a little sun, a little water now and then.
We laughed,
it sounded like she was talking about us.

The pot is still on the sill.
Every evening I forget,
then remember while brushing my teeth
and run to pour half a cup.

A new leaf came on Tuesday.
Curled up like a hand
that has not decided
whether to open.

I do not know
if a plant misses anyone.
It only leans toward the light,
steadily, without being told.

This morning I
opened the curtain earlier than usual.
Not for anyone.
Just for the leaf.

There is nothing grand behind the poem. Every afternoon the sun comes through the mosquito screen and lands on the sill in small squares, and the pot sits right inside a few of them. At night, when I water, the smell of damp soil rises and a scooter down the alley whines past and fades. "Easy to keep" sounded like a joke to the two of us back then. Now it is the only line I remember word for word from that trip to the flower market, and I could not tell you why. Elsewhere on this blog there is another poem about the things that stay behind in a home, What Remains in the Room, if you would like to read more.

On Wednesday morning at the returns desk, Hải from the stacks asked:

"That plant you were telling me about, is it still alive?"

"Yes. It has a new leaf."

"A new leaf is good."

I was about to add something and only nodded, because I could not tell whether "good" belonged to the plant or to me.

When I was writing, for the first three tries every line ran back to my ex, like a hand groping for the old light switch in a dark room. By the fourth try I was only describing the leaf, and it felt a little strange: describing something alive outside the window was easier than describing a longing. The easiest way to go wrong is to turn the plant into a metaphor, something like "if the plant can keep going, so can I". It sounds lovely, and it is tempting because it hands you a conclusion to feel safe with. But it forces the leaf to carry a meaning, when the leaf is only curling. Describe it as it is.

The first time, many people find four lines harder than expected, because every line wants to tell the breakup story. Others find describing a plant dull, and for them writing straight about the missing is easier to begin. Both are fine. After about a week, some people notice they look at the plant a little longer during the day, and some notice nothing different. On a day that is too busy, one line is enough. For example: today the leaf curled one more turn. That is already a line, and it is enough. And if you would like a gentler way to sit beside old things, there is a piece on learning to be kind to memories after a relationship has ended.

Some things keep on living without needing anyone to watch.

When to seek professional support

This article is a short poem and a writing exercise. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising it will make the missing lighter.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• A feeling of emptiness and sadness that lasts many weeks, and does not change even after a few better days
• The missing makes it hard to do familiar things at work or at home
• You find yourself avoiding people more and more
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Seeing a professional is a bit like taking a plant to the seller when its leaves keep yellowing: not because you have been caring for it badly, only because some things need another pair of eyes.

This article was created with AI assistance.