She falls through an abyss. The leather-bound Bible, covered with a layer of dust, she places farther back on the night table. Soon it will be out of sight.

Call to me and I will tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know. Jeremiah 33:3

The inscription written in pencil has faded, but it doesn’t matter — she can read it even without opening the cover. It is part of a happy childhood she could look into, one she has been able to open and read, and hear her grandfather’s voice wherever she happened to be. But not anymore. He wouldn’t be talking to the same little girl, full of wonder and unending questions. Or perhaps he would. She hasn’t given up the questions, wonders a lot more than before, craving love and trust, treasures much desired now that they’re lost. She had been better off not knowing them at all.

Loneliness is not, by far, the only reason plants wither. Neither is lack of sun nor constant droughts. Sometimes we get overwhelmed by the neurons transferred from cell to cell in the upper part of our anatomy — chlorophyll in flowers.