Abstract
Four hours after burying Gene and Judy no longer knew what to do with herself.
She fingered the elongated leaves of her Wandering Jew plant, knowing she’d pay for it later. Touching the plants always made her itch, yet she couldn’t keep away from their pointed leaves. These plants were the only things she had never killed. They grew wildly, recklessly, regardless of her tending. Despite her lack of devotion, they managed—somehow—to thrive. Sitting on a high perch above her kitchen sink, their leaves trailed over the corners of the wooden ledge. They would grow anywhere. With a