“They always die,” I whine Killer of Bob, Sally, countless others Vibrant red becoming an acceptable deep green, fading to average, then light, then yellow, then withering to a dark crinkle of brown taunting me as the same plant thrives, dozens of large deep green leaves at my mother’s house “You neglect them,” she says, about my plants, I hope, not my children “I try,” I say, water, sun, less water, less sun, rice water noodle water, nothing works— I bring them dying to her to rebirth them, she a proud mother again But! My succulents thrive, multiplying, round or pointy, green to red to orange-- Bigger, lustier by the day Shouting from a yard, a sink, a table of my own, “You can do this!”
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