By Alison Wintermute
I gaze out the window at the bare, blue-tinted pond I once knew.
I think back to a time when lily pads bobbed with waves from my cannonball, back when my brother begged me to come in for dinner. I’d snap the nearest waterlily and place it at the center of our table.
My memory fades fast as my realtor slides a potted Spathiphyllum onto the dining table then collects loose dirt into her palms.
“It’ll make ‘em feel at home,” she says with a smile.
I touch the edge of the leaf, already beginning to crisp.
“I’m sure it will.”
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