Peat Moss and Cardamom

The air inside "The Frond & Fossil" nursery was thick, warm, and smelled intensely of wet clay and peat moss. Clara had met me there right after her morning shift at the cafe, still wearing her faded green apron tucked into her tote bag. She had brought a little greaseproof paper bag of day-old cardamom buns, their pearl sugar slightly melted from the humidity of the greenhouse. We walked slowly down the narrow gravel aisles, our shoulders occasionally brushing against giant, dripping monstera leaves. I was looking for a very specific fertilizer for my maidenhair fern, but mostly I just wanted to be there before the "For Lease" sign in the window became a reality. Clara didn't try to solve the nursery's financial problems or suggest we start a petition. Instead, she pointed out a tiny, absurdly crooked succulent that looked like a deflated balloon. "That one has your name on it," she laughed, her voice echoing slightly under the high glass dome. We found a rusted metal bench near the propagation tables, where the misting system occasionally drifted over us like a cool breath. We shared the buns, passing them back and forth without speaking much. My hands were dusty with soil from touching the terracotta pots, and I liked the grit of it against the sweet, sticky pastry. When we finally walked out into the dry August heat, Clara reached into her pocket and dropped a tiny, damp cutting of a silver-dollar vine into my palm. She must have pinched it from the display table when the cashier wasn't looking. "For the balcony," she whispered with a sharp, conspiratorial wink. I didn't tell her that propagating it would take months of meticulous humidity control, or that it might not survive the draft in my hallway. I just slipped it carefully into my pocket, keeping my hand wrapped around the cool, fleshy leaves all the way to the subway station.