Despite the absence of any reliable signal— no drooping worthy of alarm, no crisping at the edges, no official declaration of thirst— the plant insists on requiring water at some precise and undisclosed moment.
Its leaves offer only minor adjustments, a change so slight it could be attributed to lighting, mood, or coincidence— the kind of evidence that refuses to testify.
And yet, water must be given.
Too early, and the roots object in silence. Too late, and the same silence deepens, as though agreement had been reached without my participation.
The purple one presents no difficulty. Six blooms at once, as if it had already reviewed the conditions of the room and signed without revision.
The pink one remains undecided. One bloom, paused indefinitely, neither withdrawn nor committed— a position I recognize.
There are, apparently, forms of life that do not improve under observation. This complicates matters.
My grandmother knew when to water them. Not through measurement, not by schedule, and certainly not by consulting the leaves for clarity. She stood near them, which was enough.
I stand near them with coffee. Again with afternoon tea.
The water disappears from the tray without acknowledgment or correction. No confirmation is issued.
The purple one continues, untroubled by my involvement.
The pink one— after a period of complete inaction, with no visible shift in circumstance— opens.
Iris Lennox 