Envy

They were both so skinny that their tightened belt ends hung down over their pants like pieces of rope. Living there in the apartment I wanted, in the town I thought I wanted to live in, “war is over” posters and plants and soft rugs everywhere.

And here I am in my apartment that doesn’t belong to me as much as it does to my boyfriend and my son. We have plants, too. And we have soft rugs. I’m not sure why I feel like their rugs are softer than mine or that they’re the ones I should have bought. My plants live in pots, but theirs cascade over shelves and up to the ceiling, and I have no idea how to begin to train a plant to move that way. But it seems easier than what I’m doing, which is training myself to move — to live — to find peace — in this life I’m living.

I wonder how much of their peace comes from suede sofas and oil paints or if they’ve always had it. I wonder if they spend hours googling how to keep their plants alive or if they just know how. I wonder if they know that their rugs are softer and their rooms cleaner than I’ll ever know how to make mine, or if they just live, and focus on living. I wonder where they learned to do that.