caretaking

The fuchsias sitting in their pots on the driveway are swaying ever so slightly in a breeze I can not feel, but see. There are four, and I have watered them earlier this morning, an arrangement I made with the long-gone landlords in exchange for a temporary small reduction in rent.

Like some underground creature, living in a den, up early into the light, daybreak companion and lover. Fuchsias and me, nearly interchangeable, who arrives for the dawn, which offers sustenance to the other. The fuchsias, drenched with a watering can, other potted-plants with the hose.

I am collecting their (the landlords) mail too, as they have driven a hard bargain. Though sitting daily on their deserted porch is a sweet benefit. This is a city, more than 650,000 call it home, and still, in the month I’ve been porch-sitting and watering and shedding some of my skin, even, I see the same people, over and over: older couples; women with dogs; rushing-by cyclists.

The fuchsias are big. The world is small.