I keep things alive, and I would rather they were somebody else's things

I keep things alive. Plants mostly, on a fire escape and two windowsills, several of them older than my marriage turned out to be, and I would honestly rather they were somebody else's things than mine. That sentence has taken me four years to write without dressing it up into something more impressive.

Forty four, Brooklyn, I work in a school kitchen, divorced seven years, no children, and my week has a great deal of room in it.

Both arrangements I have had grew out of exactly this: one small standing weekly duty in somebody's home, which in the longer case I did not miss once in five years. What made it an arrangement rather than a favour was that she inspected it, told me when it was not good enough, and expected it on Tuesdays whether or not either of us was in a decent mood.

So what I want is a standing duty, or several, in a house that is not mine. Watering, repotting, the window boxes in spring, and whatever gets added over time. Under her direction entirely and to her standard rather than to mine, which is the part that took me longest to learn.

Nothing paid, not even for what I bring. Not looking to move in or to be there daily. Not looking for a woman who wants a gardener, since the difference is the entire point. Not looking for something that ends the first time I get it wrong, because I will, probably inside the first month.