a patch of soil

Months after I lost my old home, I longed not only for the old memories, the old comforts. I missed having a patch of soil I could call my own. These days, I keep plants in pots. I water them, I call them my own. Sometimes I talk to them. I tell them how much I wish they won’t give up on me and continue living. Some of them have died. Others have kept on, surviving yet still without flowers. The money tree placed in our bathroom thrives. The herbs are a bit lucky, too. I must buy bigger pots for them soon.


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