Flower Girl | h.s.

41.

Harry

I never really liked house plants.

Specifically, I found ivy to be one that didn't seem to have a purpose other than to fill the room. It felt like a filler plant. Like, something people owned to be pretend that they could take care of a plant.

I thought it was a bit useless, if I was honest.

The most that I stared at it, the more I just couldn't understand the point of putting it in a pot and having to water it everyday. It just crept around like it was being sneaky and hung in large, lifeless strands that seemed to just overwhelm the sides of bookshelves and other furniture.

As I'm staring at a plant that Halle has in the corner of the room, I'm wondering if ivy knows where it's going– if it has a plan on where it wants to grow. I wonder if plants have the same thought process that humans did; if they knew where they were going and tried to reach the goal.

Was that plant of ivy trying to make it's way towards the light? To a window? What's it searching for? Does it have a purpose?

Was it like human hair? Would it just keep growing until–

"Harry?"

Halle's voice brought me out of the endless dissociation of plants and their goals, bringing me back to the room that was shared by the three of us.

I hadn't realized that my attention had faltered from where it needed to be. I turn towards the woman who speaks at me, Daisy sitting beside me as her attention draws towards her, too.

This was the first time that Daisy and Halle were meeting, even though it should have happened way sooner. We had talked about it for a while, but this time-- this felt different. This wasn't just because I thought it may help with us understanding each other.

This was necessary.

The last time that I had gone to therapy was a few weeks ago, and I hadn't found that I had much to talk about then.

We had mostly discussed the trip to Catalina Island– I didn't go further into detail on how it really went– and the despair that I felt that Lottie was getting another year older. I think most of the worry came from the fact that I felt I hadn't done a good job in raising the kids to their full potential, which Halle continued to need to question and try to reason with.

Halle told me that all parents usually felt that way, that I wasn't alone with those ideas. But something about it still made me feel anxious— like everything I did was somehow going to drive them into the same life that I had at that age.

What Halle had said to me then was that I should recognize each day that goes by isn't like a day I had when I was fifteen. They were in school, they had friends, they had activities that they participated in that I was able to help facilitate. I was giving them freedoms and parties and birthdays that I hoped could be memorable. There were times when I may think that I failed, but then I would see small details about them that would remind me that I hadn't.

Brooks getting A's on his report card, Lottie taking care of the new kitten with the utmost love and care that I couldn't ever imagine giving to another creature. But she took responsibility and was trying her best to show me that she could do it.

There definitely were moments that I felt the pride. I could never take it as a 'good job, Harry' moment, though. That's where I struggled-- I couldn't take any credit for the fact that their nurturing was my doing. The words that I spoke to them meant everything to them, as kids.

She suggested that I recognize when I smiled more, but also times when I cried. Keeping track of emotions was helpful in recognizing them. Work was draining for me at times, and I felt that I was starting to recognize where I was in life may have not been fulfilling me like I wanted it to.