She always started with the best of intentions: fat bulbs tucked into dark soil. She mouthed encouragement from her side of the window; celebrated the first hint of yellow; watched as the petals unfolded, and was thankful for spring.
Once they were over, she made vague promises to herself – deadheading; replanting; tidying. It was the same every year. She stopped lingering at the window. When she walked to work, she cursed number 25’s bark chippings and flourishing lilac.
When she lifted them from the sill, each window-box left a dark rectangular outline on the white paint. She left them for the bin men to take, promised herself that next year, next year….