It’s the end of March, and it will be the 6th year that
I have lived in this flat. Almost all my pot plants has
died during this time. Except for my snake-plants
who excitedly and sticky bloom once a year. They
rarely bloomed before.
I would just need one or two more plants that could
cope with the heat in my south window. Maybe they
could give me a little comfort in my lonely days?
But I don’t need any plants in my window to north.
That’s my bedroom window and dark nights I need
nothing less than someone who holds me tenderly.
But my beloved is not here with me.
My long wake days in my living room with this big
window wall towards south withers me 30 years
older to a brittle woman of 95, with no more on
her agenda than make it through the day.
I could easily find another flat with windows in
east and in west. But I could never find someone
else like him. He promised to try again to come
and see me this spring – but so far it’s only
promises. But I’ll stay and wait.
I live like a flower shoot in a glass of water, which
have brought forth a lot of roots, but still never
gets the nourishing soil.
And this apartment would be then as a waiting area
at a crossroad, there I write my words while I wait
for him to come and my life to begin before it ends?
Or is this all?