Each Blooms Your Name

Although she left some time ago, my roommate, through whom I found this job, remains a green and growing memory, particularly on mornings such as this. She was white-blonde when I met her and morning light slanting down picked up those flat, bright highlights in her hair. She would take her coffee to the transparent wall by the flower beds and linger, drinking the small cup. It looked five seconds of coffee, but she took it in tiny, bitter sips. She seemed to greet everyone and they gave her leave to remain by the glass because it made work feel like something lingering from the weekend rather than the full stop to Sunday night. She faced outward, unlike me.

Why I think of her, facing this fabulous garden stuck between walls of glass, swirls around me like the dust. She was brave, she left for love, and she left me here, trying to carve a career in her wake, like a clumsy skier behind a motorboat. Before she left, one of the gardners gave her one of these tender perennials at the change of the season and she,seeing my avid interest, passed it on to me. She would have killed it, the way she did the rest. The live plants on the sill were all generously attributed to me back in the dorm.

That plant still leans against my window. Dreaming, perhaps, of its days as a model of its species behind the big glass panes. It has spread across the sill and gone to seed in the window, which I leave open as often as I can to let the bugs flit around. My mother would be happy to see it. She told me once that I would know my path because each flower that lined it would bloom my name.

Suddenly, I was resolved to bring a boquet to the dinner tonight of things that could be gathered from the yards and sidewalks around my apartment. The first flowers that I ever gathered, the ones at the back of the schoolyard during recess while I dreamed of being woken up from glass coffins. One of the managers walked by and frowned at my shoulder, stepping up close to make sure that I wasn't examing a problem. "Perfect view for the clients," he murmured, "Provided they can see the entire sweep, like the architect intended."

Back to the glass walls I go, to think on nothing.