The Mustard Greens That Flowered, and I Watered Them Anyway

My rooftop has six styrofoam boxes lined up against the railing, one crop in each: mustard greens, chilli, water spinach, spring onions. Soil in styrofoam dries out fast, so every morning at six I climb up, dragging the hose from the tap by the plant pots downstairs. It is exactly long enough to reach the last box.

The mustard greens are in the second box from the left. I bought the seeds at the shop at the mouth of the alley and sowed them early last month. Now the stems are stiff as broom handles, and the tips have flowered.

I still water them.

The mustard greens stand taller than my knee,
stems stiff, leaves crinkled.
At the top, clusters of yellow flowers
opened the day before yesterday.
I water them like every morning.

You can't eat them anymore.
Bitter leaves, tough fibre.
I know.
My hand still holds the hose,
the water still falls evenly.

Seeds sown at the start of the month,
sprouted in three days.
That day I took a photo
and sent it to my daughter
with one line of bragging.

I don't know
what I'll feel once they're pulled,
lighter or empty.
I have never pulled
anything that was still in bloom.

This morning a bee
landed on a mustard flower.
I stood still,
water running over my feet.

Today I only turned off the hose.

If You Can't Eat It Anymore, Who Is the Watering For?

Twenty years as an accountant at a garment workshop taught me that when something expires, you close the books. I can't close the books on these greens. And I've noticed one thing: since they flowered, I water them longer than when they were young. The closer they get to the end, the more carefully I water. Nobody told me to, and if I asked why I do it, I doubt anyone could answer for me.

The day the flowers opened I stood looking at them for almost a minute. Yellower than I expected, yellow like a child's wax crayon on paper, and I was a little annoyed that it was beautiful. I never planted them to look at. I planted them for something green to put in the evening soup. Old mustard greens smell sharper than young ones, almost like mustard itself, and I could smell them from the stairwell before I reached the roof.

Last night my daughter called on video and saw the box behind me.

"Mum, have you eaten the greens you planted yet?"

"They've flowered."

"Then pull them up, Mum, and I'll send you other seeds."

"Let me look first."

She didn't ask anything more. I couldn't have explained what 'look' meant, either.

Last week I tried pulling up one plant in the corner of the box. The roots held tighter than I expected. Soil sprayed across the concrete, and I sat picking up every clump, feeling clumsy and rushed, like someone hurrying through a job she didn't want to do. The plant wouldn't go back in, so I put it in the rubbish bag. I haven't pulled another since. Bà Sáu next door, hanging a blanket on her railing, called across to ask what all the soil on the floor was about. I said I'd tried pulling one. She said you pull old mustard greens, what else are they for. I laughed and didn't argue, because she's right.

I'm not ready to call this letting go, and I'm not sure it's giving up either. Someone has written clearly about how letting go differs from giving up; I read it and nodded, but I still can't tell which side this box falls on. Someone else writes about letting go of one small expectation each week. This week mine is a row of mustard greens, and I haven't let go of it yet.

Leaving it as it is will do.

The next morning I still went up to the roof at six. The greens were still standing there, two more clusters open. The bee was there too, or another one, I couldn't tell.

I watered the chilli first.

This article was created with AI assistance.