Everything Dies Here

Two weeks ago, I discovered a stray tulip had found its way into the dirt patch in front of our house. This spot used to be a flower bed, so the bulb may have been a remnant of the home's former beauty, or a squirrel may have been confused when planting his finds. Today, the bud is no more developed than it was in March. They are sealed shut, with only a thin line of red between future leaves to show the petals' color.

Next to us, three boys live the Typical College Lifestyle. Their cars are loud. Their beer cans seep into our yard. They look like they haven't showered in several days. There are several stray tulips in their "flower bed." And they are blooming.

Everything I touch here dies. This morning, I discovered a ring of mold eating away at my avocado seedling. My house plant that my mother nursed from her own and replanted had a dead leaf--one of three on its small, fragile body. I peeled it of and felt the roots loosen in the soil under my force. There was no moisture. This is what happens when I leave for the weekend. This college-town-industry-failing town's water is devoid of nutrients, and all those I feed it to die.

I can only imagine what the water is doing to my body with each pot of pasta, tea or coffee, each teeth-brushing. I received a water filter for Christmas, and the black specks and goo that settle inside feel like a small victory every time. Today, an avocado pit will be pampered. It will be poked with toothpicks and placed lovingly into a Ball jar of filtered water. I will dust the windowsill and clean the glass. It will live. It's joy at living will spread to my miserable house plant, and my mother will never know how it was resuscitated.