Every Day, the Little Job

Every day, Rumi does the little job.

The plant lives in a red pot on the step by the door. It is small. It has four leaves, and one leaf that is not sure yet.

The plant is thirsty every day. So every day, Rumi fills the green mug at the tap.

Half a mug. Not a whole one. Half.

On Monday, Rumi does the little job. Glug, glug. The water goes down into the dark soil and disappears.

On Tuesday, Rumi does the little job. Glug, glug.

On Wednesday it rains all morning. Big fat rain, coming off the roof in a straight line. The step goes dark. The shoes by the door get wet.

“Not today,” says Dadi. “Today the sky is doing it.”

So on Wednesday, Rumi watches the sky do the little job instead.

She holds the mug anyway.

On Thursday — glug, glug. Water on the dark soil.

On Friday, Rumi forgets. She is halfway up the stairs in her pyjamas.

Then she stops.

Then she comes all the way down again, one step at a time, holding on to the rail.

Glug, glug.

Saturday. Sunday. Monday again.

A sparrow comes and sits on the rail, and looks in the pot, and goes away again.

The plant does not say thank you. Plants don’t.

And then, one morning — look.

On the stem, near the top, between two leaves. Something small. Something tight and green and closed up, like a tiny fist.

Rumi puts one finger near it. Not on it. Near it.

“Tomorrow?” says Rumi.

“Maybe,” says Dadi. “Maybe not tomorrow.”

So Rumi puts the green mug upside down on the step, next to the shoes, where it lives.

Ready.