Before my father died I bought a ***
with a small plant, a fragile sapling
with pale green dotted leaves. He came
to my place to see me, bringing a slice
of watermelon with jagged green stripes
on its rind. He placed it in the fridge and
looked at me, asking with stern eyes: “Do  
you forgive me?” I didn’t understand his
words and I answered “Yes” with all my
heart, stabbed by his stare that moment.

He died a few days later, after calling me on
the phone, saying that I should move into
another house. I did that, taking with me
from that place my small green plant beginning
to rise. I placed it on my desktop, letting it grow...
leaf after leaf from her thin stem, like a stairway.
Eight years passed and she’s my only child, my
only friend, my only lover. She grew steadily
and slowly, I changed her compost a few times.
She’s still here, my small calico greeny treasure.
Two years ago I became a proud grandmother
for three new shoots, stemming at her feet.

I had to tie it to a plastic stick to help it grow up
And when I look at it I still can see my father’s
eyes, taking hold of my heart.