Each morning, I open my blinds and reveal my windowsill plants. Mint crowds the right side, long and thick. I had worried about it before it sprung, watering while cilantro budded immediately, reaching for the sky, spreading out to the fullest the planting can allowed it. Mint had taken its time, enough that I worried I had done something wrong, that the seeds had died some point before. But upon the first glimpse of sprouts one morning, it rushed towards the sky faster that its sibling, two canisters over.

            Cilantro had been the first to grow. When it spread its leaves the first time, I gently cooed how beautiful it looked, how lovely it was to see it each morning. I picked off the dead leaves, whispered to it, sang at times. It became its own, miniature forest before long.

            To its left is Lucy, my succulent. The first plant child I brought home, recently replanted into a bigger container after she grew so large. A few times I was worried I had killed her, struggling to make sure I didn’t overwater or under, but now in her new space, she thrives. Her colors are bright, excited, and new buds grow along her side.

            In the middle of them all, is basil. Basil sits as an empty container of dirt. It has bore no sprouts, now greenery. It has shown no signs of wishing to wake, to poke its head into the world. Still I water it, still I hope. One day, perhaps, it’ll grow. It will outshine the others. It’ll burst outward and consume the window itself. Even if it takes its time, even if it slumbers still, I hope that one day, I can sing good morning to four instead of three.