A Year of Not Touching Grass, Documented

They told us to touch grass. We touched glass. This is not a confession so much as a yield report.

January: I bought river stones for a dish on the sill and put the phone in them face-down, as if the device could compost. It did not compost. It buzzed the stones like a bee that had unionized.

April: I learned the names of three houseplants and forgot two of them. The one that lived was the one I ignored with consistency. Consistency, it turns out, is a form of love that looks like neglect in better lighting.

August: I went outside for a pear and came back with a tan line in the shape of a notification. The year was not wasted. I know exactly how late light falls on plaster. That is a kind of farming. The crop just happens to be a mood.