Mrs. Kellerman asked me to water her plants while she visited her daughter in Omaha. She said two weeks, maybe three.
That was eighteen months ago. The cancer came back fast, and her daughter stayed out there with her till the end.
I still go over every Wednesday morning. I let myself in with the key she gave me. I water the ficus by the window, the snake plant in the bathroom, the little jade on the kitchen sill.
On the counter there's a prescription bottle with her name on it. Janet Kellerman. I don't move it. I just see it every time I fill the watering can.
This morning I walked around the whole house one more time. The night before a move, for her daughter finally coming to clear things out. I watered everything slowly, like I could make the dirt stay wet longer.
The ficus is taller than me now. I don't know who will water it after Wednesday.