My fingers are crossed.
The skin on my knuckles criss cross, wrinkled from all my working and tilling and watering and weeding.
Weeding: I stopped you from rolling papers bursting with psychedelic herbs. I stopped you from destroying your brain, smoking the dried up substance promising to take you through heaven but never telling you the destination; hellish-living.
Burning: You were going through hell when I met you. Broke, broken, lost, losing. I was your cool, your calm; spent days and nights watering down the fire.
Watering: I planted, I watered and the Lord is giving increase. Even when the clouds above refused to bring rain, I irrigated. And when the rains above came in their torrents, I sheltered.
Sheltering: I hovered over you like a mustard tree. Spread out all of my leaves, never leaving. I took the sting of the sun for you. And even when the sun was its hottest and all I wanted to do was flee, I dug my roots in the ground and rooted for you.
Digging: Now I spend days and nights digging up more and more information on you and your husband. Pardon me if I feel a little entitled. Pardon me if I sound a little more like a creditor than a friend. Forgive me if I have grown attached to you, you my garden. Pardon me if I stalk you and still root for you, it stems from my dedication to you. Yes, pun intended. Pardon me if I can’t step outside anymore because there’s an empty patch where you used to be. I’m sorry if I pass by millions of seeds everyday and never even think of cultivating them. All I can think of is that you left; transplanted.
Transplanting: Your last Facebook post weakened my fingers just before I closed the tab. My fingers, of their own volition, uncrossed themselves. They no longer hope, they no longer wait for you.
But what will the criss cross wrinkles on my knuckles do? For they hurt and hurt me every time I look at them. They remind me of your transplant; they remind me that you’re blossoming in another’s garden when it was me who got my hands dirty.