Dearest plant in my window,

When I bought you as mere seeds in the seasonal aisle at Jewel, your packaging promised me this:

I planted you with big ambitions. Of a window brimming with flowers, explosions of pink and gold. Of botanical glory.

When you first sprouted, I was gleeful; young leaves! Signs of life!

Over the weeks I’ve watched you, watered you, and cared for you. I’ve thought, I can do this. I’m not an utter failure at caring for another living thing, no matter how simplistic the life form. I can come home every day, add water, and reap my rewards. This is what adults do. They’re reliable, they nurture. They definitely don’t make drunk nachos or let their laundry pile up. Dearest zinnia, I was ready for you to lead me to such great things. And my how you’ve grown!

And grown, and grown… lankier and leafier.

I’m happy you’ve thrived, but something is still missing… flowers.

Two months or so in, and there’s no sign of color. Nothing.

I don’t want to limit your potential, really I don’t. As a budding plant parent, however, I’d hoped for a more “traditional” first round. Like an actual zinnia.

That said… you have survived for more than two months, which is far longer than the ivy, rosemary, thyme, or the cactus every lived under my care.

Carry on, little weirdo.