Apartment Story

The bromeliad leans to one side; the soil holds firm its rubbery tank. If it were going to tip, I think, it would have tipped by now. I may have a second cup of coffee today.

Last night’s moon was full. Snowfall began early, just after midnight said the weather news, and the day begins with an exceptional and blue feel, as though rules do not apply.

Snowfall thickens and a distant siren does not finish the course of its tune but repeats the beginning, and repeats, and repeats. I decide I’ll stay where I am.

The radiator breathes only outwards and I remember how cold I was in that pocket of California where no snow fell.

Snowfall thins, distant tires pass through cold gray gelatin and from my seat I assume the driver feels regret. I swallow an extra lithium and make the second cup of coffee. What is swallowed cannot be unswallowed. The day will feel different now, extraterrestrial, and this is all I have ever sought.

The snow puffs out, heavy again, and slows, and straightens.

The bromeliad leans.

Some plants die.

Some plants will always die when they’ve just begun rooting.

ELIZABETH BOLTON is a PhD student at the University of Toronto where she studies writing and its effects on the brain. She was born and raised in northern California and earned her Bachelor's degree in Latin at U.C. Berkeley.