The little plant on my window sill struggles, sometimes, to grow.
Sometimes I don’t water it when I should. The soil it draws life from dries up… becomes crumbly and ashen. Something hard for the roots to draw nutrition from. But, they try, and strain, and it keeps living.
In my worst moments, I water it just in time.
Other days, a streak of cloudy weather blots out its sun. Ever bent on living, its leaves strain—turning, arching in the direction of the rays.
It doesn’t grow as much as it could when the conditions aren’t ripe. It conserves its energy, hunkering down. Persevering.
In my best moments, I water it every few days and give it plant food. The soil is soft and spongy. It always needs a week or two to recover, but then it thrives.
Growing every day, reaching higher towards the light, producing new leaves and new branches; shedding the withering. Its leaves are plump, the life in them abundant, coursing through them and creating a vibrancy that it shares with the world—several shades of green, incandescent in its own way, sitting on the sill, in the sun—brightening up the room.