After my dad died, my mother came to live with us.
Under one condition:
The room she was moving into had a plant.
“You can stay as long as that plant’s healthy,” I said.
So, my mother watered that plant every day.
And it stayed green and the flowers were always in bloom.
It was perfectly fine for five years.
My mother was not. The dementia took a hold of her, and she ended up bedridden and confused.
Until she died.
When we were clearing out her things, I picked up the plastic plant.
Maybe we’ll bury her with it.