Clare bought the sago palm hoping it would survive her black thumb. All her plants shriveled and died, sad testaments to her forgetfulness. But cycads had survived extinctions, ice ages. Surely, one could survive her.
Clare placed the palm on her nightstand. She thought it would remind her to water. But she forgot, like all the plants before.
The thirsting plant sent out fronds while Clare slept. The tender green unfurled through Clare, burrowing up through her nose, in through her tear ducts, searching for the moisture they were denied. The cycad had survived extinctions, and it would survive Clare.