I don’t want a new planter.
I found this lovely plant eight years ago,
discarded among the dry waste,
sitting sadly among things nearly forgotten.
It didn’t belong there.
I don’t know why it was left behind.
But I picked it up,
gave it a home,
my home, our home.
It fit perfectly into a container
I bought on sale at Star Bazaar,
fourteen years ago —
one left from a set of three.
A good deal.
I placed it gently in a jhola bag,
a keepsake from my school days.
How many years has it been now?
Too many to count, too many to recall.
And there it is,
my plant, still hanging in the corner,
looking pretty in the space we share,
the home I’ve built.
It was with me in another home,
travelling with me,
together on this journey.
From the old place to the new,
we made the move side by side.
I know it’s old,
not shiny,
probably lacking the clean aesthetic of newness,
but it has its own charm,
the beauty of age.
It’s seen me through moments I don’t speak of,
heard the stories no one else did.
It’s more than a plant in a planter.
It’s the keeper of my stories,
whispering to the winds,
the birds,
the sky.
