Thursday, July 3, 2014
11:11am at La Merceria
He sent me a money tree for my nineteenth birthday. There was a note, scrawled on the back of a receipt:
Happy Birthday, Sara.
Love, Your Old Man.
It wasn’t in the best shape, the money tree. Who knows how long it had travelled, how thirty it was. I was mad at him for sending me something that was living and needed care and attention. Those things didn’t come easily to him.
I put it in the window of my room. The corner of its leaves started to turn brown so I moved it out of the bright light.