Margen
Every morning at eight, Mr. Ferrer comes down to the lobby and waters the empty flowerpot by the mailboxes. He does it carefully, in circles, as if the soil might complain. In the building we make jokes: he's watering a memory, the geranium is invisible.
On Tuesday I passed him on the stairs with his plastic watering can and finally dared to ask. He looked at me without taking offence. 'It's not empty,' he said. 'It's slow.'
On Thursday an ambulance took him away. His daughter asked me to collect his mail, and I — though nobody asked me to — started coming down at eight to water the pot. In circles. In case the soil complains.
This morning there was a sprout. Two tiny leaves, folded like hands. I went upstairs to ask after her father and the daughter told me he had died in the early hours. I walked back down slowly, afraid the sprout would be gone. It was still there. Very green. Freshly arrived from somewhere.