A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

Nor the floors, which are made of maple planks, the corners an elaborate parquet. In one corner stands a bonsaied ficus. Twice a year I take it from its pot and clip its roots, like I was taught.

Tonight was one of those times.

Once done, I gathered up all but one root end and dropped them in the compost. The one I saved I put in a shotglass filled with water, placing it on the windowsill, where I watched it, lit by street light, as I drifted off to sleep.