She only sees her father a few times each year. There’s a different plant each time, always dying. First it was a miniature Christmas pine, needles shedding at the slightest of touches, a handful of wood-carved ornaments hanging weakly from the branches. Then it was a chilli plant. He cooked her homemade curry with home-grown chillis, dry little fingers, bland and insipid. Once there was a spider plant, a mess of grey and green tendrils that cracked and crumbled when she touched them.
This time it’s a cactus plant, on a plate by the windowsill. She pushes one of the spines, expecting it to bend and snap, but it pricks her skin. She pulls her finger back, sees a small drop of blood. That one’s still alive, he says. Doesn’t need much water.
—
Anton Rose lives in Durham, U.K., with his wife and their dog. He writes fiction and poetry, and his work has appeared in a number of print and online journals. Find him at antonrose.com or @antonjrose.