Aerate: Leaving My Houseplants Was The Break-up That Almost Broke Me
The Vegas strip glitters in the distance. I’m sitting alone in a hot tub, a New Yorker suddenly thrust into an arid, alien land. All I can see is endless desert and track homes; all I can think about are my plants.
In August, after calling Brooklyn home for nine years, I left for good. I miss my close-knit group of friends, my daily walks in Prospect Park and the city’s infectious energy—though the list of things I don’t miss is much longer. But all these months later, when I think of my houseplants on my old apartment’s windowsill, I feel pangs of regret.