Today I started to grow my avocado tree.

Well, not a tree, really. More like a little tree. A houseplant.

I've never taken care of a living thing before (maybe that was the problem), much less given life to one. Outside of school science projects that is, when I would religiously follow the instructions in the lab manual, mixing earth, water, air, chemicals in just the right amounts, taking copious notes and observations. Only to throw the lot away with nary a second thought after receiving the A. All very clinical, dry, obligatory.

I've never wanted to grow anything before. It's not in the Gilmore genes. And though I'm not doing it for a grade, for an A, I'm worried about how successful it would turn out this time. Now I'm all thumbs (of the non-green variety); now it's all very emotional and non-scientific. I need it to grow. But wouldn't a plant—any living thing—thrive on sunny, happy feelings? I'll take care of it. I wonder if good intentions are enough.

I wash my avocado seed under the tap in my tiny yellow bathroom. I wash it well; I need to put some element of ritual into this. And my chest hurts as I do this, as if it were my insides, my heart, being rinsed in water. Starting fresh, starting new. But not really. The contents of my heart are old. But they've festered in numbness, denial, the desire to forget. Now, I bring them out to the open. And I cry as I wash my seed.

I suspend the seed (just an inch of it) over a glass of water. It was a frustrating exercise; it kept falling in. But finally it holds, with my impressive configuration of toothpicks. I place it in a warm nook in my kitchenette, took a picture of it (a callback to my school days). Day 1.

A houseplant? This is my little memorial to that house somewhere in Palo Alto, the one with an avocado tree in the backyard. An ode to what might have been, and to what still is. My love for Logan.