a plant called Cecilia

I named a row of treatment-spurred succulents after Simon and Garfunkel songs, because why the cuss not? I felt the weight of my adulthood, walking through the rows of ceramic vegetable pots and wishing I remembered the genus and species of the specific carnation in the soil bed to the left. There was sand seeping through my salt waters and some mediocre ambiance; a bunch of songs I'd only heard vaguely while trekking behind my mama's shopping cart, enduring Saturday morning grocery outings, rewarded only by the apologetic Smarties at the cash register.

I turned 18 and felt absolutely nothing. My family sent me flowers and a three-by-three note, and I spent the day with people I'd never met, covered from head to toe in confusion and wondering where I'd misstepped on my railway of resignation. Horticulturalism meant much less than the surprising proximity of the Botany Pond when I finally moved home, which in turn was much less surprising than its being named after the university Botany department. I remember her telling me about her dreams of art therapy, her voice like hazelnuts and her skin like maple leaves, lovely and teeming with nostalgia and charcoal tones. I remember her writing about dogs meandering along Mexican roofs and wondering where, where on earth the time went --

"I swear, I was in middle school two weeks ago" --

It felt a bit ridiculous, after a while. The rooster lamp on the dresser beside mine, bought solely for the purpose of a college dorm--who even conceptualizes aviary lighting devices?!--but I put up with it because Lauren was everything to me and I would've put up with essentially anything, granted there was leeway for a few snide remarks and a lot of veggie straws, altoids on the side and enough Taylor Swift to render us emotionally static in a blissful, teenager-y kinda way. She's in England now and I'm feeling 

so 

cussing

young --

It kinda hurts, almost, how young I feel.