A NOTE ON THE PORCH AND A PLANT THAT’S GONE MISSING kelly jones

Scribbled in pencil, the note warned that a house down the street was a meth lab.
Or something like that. It mentioned a bust. The note was disconnected,
much like I imagine its writer to be. I’m pretty sure
I did meth once upon a time, except it was called gas
out in the country. Some toxic combination
of batteries and cough meds, youth and stupidity.
It was the year the Twin Towers fell, when we learned
things change completely in an instant.
We wanted, for a while, to disappear. Some of us did.
Died in car wrecks, two by two, winding roads taken
too fast in a summer storm – closed caskets, no viewing
the mess up close. Those months were a blur.
I read about it later in old papers. Looked for the dead online
and visited their graves at Christmas.
Last year my mom gave me a housewarming plant
and I kept it alive indoors through winter.
I recently put it on the porch, when spring came crashing in
all glorious yellow, the world sickeningly pollenated
and the dogwoods blossoming. I am not angry
it was stolen, but feel somewhat guilty
that I have no idea how long the plant was missing
before I noticed it was gone.