Begonia

I met you when I went to pick up a table
from your house. I saw you on the white
mantle. Your floppy leaves were grieving.
You were not facing the window. Your
home was being cleared out. I asked if I
could have you. The caretaker paused
and sized me up, then told me you had
loved two women before me, that you
were passed from mother to daughter.
Was I willing to love you carefully like
they had? I brought you home and wanted
to give you light so I put you outside.
Your bright green (on front) and red
(on back) leaves burnt, swelled, and
turned brown. I thought I killed you.
I felt unworthy of your nurtured legacy.
I felt unqualified. I had no idea if you
could rebound, and if so; should I cut off
all your leaves, or would you mend them?
I decided to cut them off which left you
with only one brown limb, lying flush
against the soil. I placed you in a window
that I knew in my body was the right place
for you all along. I gave you water and
nutrients. Very quickly you rebounded,
fanning out over a few weeks to your
original glittering wide-leaf self.