She had one coffee cup, small and white. She also had a tiny coffee pot and an air-sealed container for the coffee. It was supposed to be drunk in company, shiny butter cookies baked in twists, in the middle of the table. It was supposed to be drunk in small sips,  punctuated by gossip. She drank it alone, daily, at four. Sometimes she would listen to music, others she would open the backgammon in front of her and stare at it. If it was a holiday she would call a friend. And they would share the sips and the gossip over the phone. Sometimes she would forget about it and not drink it. 

When washing the dishes she would contemplate how others did it. This country was swelling with immigrants. They had families and friends, they took part in their communities. She was a leaf that had accidentally fallen in a lake. When she first left home she happy. This country had raised her from an awkward girl who would pick on her skin  to a woman who didn’t need to compare herself to others in order to be content. And there were moments, years even, of happiness when the answer to when are you coming back was straightforward and clear.

But she was growing older. There was a white hair on her temple looking back at her. There was an anti-wrinkle cream on her nightstand and she wasn’t asked for an ID anymore. Science says that the body replaces itself every seven to ten years. And it had been thirteen. Bad number. Thirteen years. She was no longer the girl that had left. She was close to being a different body twice. This different body wanted a different life. It grew lopsided, like a plant looking for the sun, and it was pulling towards home. It felt thirsty and deprived. It needed to dive in the warm soil, it craved the mirrors of the Mediterrenean sea, it demanded roots. 

There was a primordial instinct to love inside her. So she bought a plant. She placed it in a corner on a small pedestal and she watered it and caressed it and talked to it. But then she got worried about it being lonely even though she would always share her four  o’clock coffee with it. In a soft voice she would tell it not to worry, that it wasn’t alone. When a couple of leaves withered she knew she had to do something. She brought home some more plants. Succulents and cacti, a dwarf pine and a devil’s ivy. The most joyful day was when she found an olive tree. She purchased the most exquisite pot. Heavy clay. She painted an evil eye on it. She felt very needed. She shared her coffee with all of them.

One night the clay pot cracked. She was asleep and didn’t notice. She didn’t notice when she woke up either because the crack was at the bottom. What she did notice was that the ivy was slowly reaching up towards the ceiling. She was very proud. She went to a specialist shop and brought back plant food. The ivy went bright green and she was sure it liked it. She didn’t want the rest to be jealous so she fed them as well. 

The first time she saw the root she thought it was a hair. It was so frail that it snapped the moment she touched it. She cried softly thinking that her olive tree was dying. She began taking extra care of it. She played classical music to sooth it and used distilled water just in case. A new root would appear every couple of days. She used a gimmicky magnifying glass to examine them and wrote down her observations in a notebook. She drew graphs and tables, took measurements with scientific accuracy and used different colour inks to trace the patterns. She could tell they were getting bigger and stronger. That’s when she stopped wearing shoes in an effort to protect them. She kept a pair outside the front door and the rest she packed away. 

The cacti was growing as well and she started replanting them in cooking pots as a temporary solution. She was hoping they would spur little flowers. She would get really close, squint her eyes and look at them meticulously. With her measuring tape she recorded their growth and made graph after graph trying to estimate how big they would get in a week, a month, a year. The side of the living room felt humid as leaves and stems took over the wall. Mothes, butterflies and tiny worms started appearing as well. But her favourite were the caterpillars, fat and stocky. The flat was alive. 

The humidity made it difficult to wear layers of clothes and she resulted in only putting on a sleeveless dress covered in flowers. She would stand close to the plant wall and emerge herself in the vegetation. And they started to recognise her. They would lean over and cover her in leaves, their branches scratching ever so lightly on her skin. Increasingly it was becoming more and more difficult for her to leave the small flat. She was constantly worried about them dying, going thirsty or hungry.  

A root made its way outside the living room one afternoon in May. She saw the tip picking through the door as she was making her customary coffee. It stared. She looked at it and then looked at the coffee. It then turned and looked away. She was confused. She quickly turned the stove knob off.  She returned to the living room, kneeled next to the dearest of the dears and softly held a single leaf between her fingers. The olive tree’s trunk was no longer slim or delicate. It had grown strong and stocky as if on it rested the world. She placed her ear close to the soil and listened carefully for the sound of moving roots, for the breathing of growth. 

Her children were stirring around her. She felt them leaning, getting closer. Soft leaves, curled leaves, prickly ones and withered ones. Each fighting for her affection. There was not enough of her skin exposed for all of them to be able to touch her. Still sat down, she removed her dress and allowed stems to curl on her naked body. She relaxed into it, her breathing slowed down. She felt a root pierce her heart while in the kitchen the water over boiled and spilled.