Found it in the junk drawer this morning, wedged between a rusty key and a takeout menu from a place that closed in 1987.
A seed packet. Nasturtiums. Past the plant-by date by four decades now.
It was my first real paycheck from the hotel. Every cent went to buy that packet for you, because you said you wanted to grow something orange and reckless in the window box.
You hugged me so hard I thought my ribs would crack. Then you planted them anyway, even though the date said they were already old.
They never sprouted. But you kept that packet taped to your mirror for years.
This afternoon there was a fire drill at work. We all stood in the cold parking lot watching the gulls circle the bait shed. I was the oldest one there, thinking about you.
I remembered that afternoon after the drill when I got home and found you with your hands in the dirt, saying, 'Maybe next time.'
You never blamed the seeds. You blamed the weather, the soil, the light. Not me.
I slipped the packet back in the drawer. Maybe I'll plant one just to see. But I think I already got what I bought.