I look on as the waiter just shove the plant and the book at the very far end of the table, making way for a big group of customers who paid little to no knowledge to the poor little thing. It's like the thing didn't even exist.

Well, sometimes people are like that. They shove you into little boxes. Each of them labeled as tiny chapters of their life, and all these they called, memories.

There, there, little plant. At least now, I've taken a picture of you.

I put down my phone and continued reading, paying no attention to the poor little plant.