Each Monday, as water boils in the teapot, and the eggs fry in the small, warped frying pan, I fill a antique kettle with water.
It’s for the plants, you see. There’s at least one in every room throughout my house.
In my kitchen, there is a Janet Craig plant that came from the last house I lived it. Upon arriving to its current location, which is positioned in the center of the dining table, it was barely alive. It’s leaves dried, dead and brown. Only the center frond was alive. Carefully, I trimmed the dead from the living. Placed the miserable plant in the light. Watered it. Told it that it would be just fine. Now, it’s grown full, and grown tall. The decay has disappeared. Life has returned to it.
There’s a golden pothos in my bedroom, tucked into the only corner that receives year-round sunlight. It shares a similar story to the Janet Craig plant of the kitchen. The difference: The Janet Craig was brought to here to the new house; the golden pothos of my bedroom was left behind, it’s vines nearly dead against the faux wood-panel walls. Now, thought the backside that faces the wall is bare, the vines have grown green. They mask the bright orange storage container that holds items I no longer have use for.
On the mahogany coffee table—another relic left behind—there’s another golden pothos, one that was bought for me by my mother upon moving in. Beside it, atop an electric fireplace that is rarely used, a jade bonsai tree sits. But, there’s not much to be said about it. It grows, slowly. The leaves do not require water; too much water on the leaves will cause the bonsai tree to die from over-saturation. Instead, only the base, where the roots are, takes a small dose, then it’s left alone.
When I received the golden pothos, however, it was nothing more than a few short sprouts. Over time, the coffee table has become host to various copies of The New Yorker, The Paris Review, a book of Kurt Vonnegut’s drawings, a book on craft cocktails, and a travel book. Over time, the vines of the plant have grown. They plan to overtake the coffee table. Bury the books behind the green. I don’t mind. I’ve watched the passage of time through the inches between each new leaf. When the windows are open on humid days, the leaves collect early-morning dew from the atmosphere. The droplets hang at the tip of the leave, revealing room inside of a room. They shimmer as the sun crests over the horizon.
A succulent sits in the windowsill of my writing room. It, too, was a gift. Given to me, by someone dear, in a hand-painted coffee mug. It’s grown too large to fit much longer in the mug. A few months ago, one of the top-halves of the plant broke off, along with five of it’s leaves. Somewhere, at some point in time, I had read, or so I thought, that you can replant the leaves of succulents, and they will re-root, continuing the process of growth.
Now, when I pour hot water over the fresh coffee grounds, the re-rooted succulent grows in the kitchen windowsill. All five leave, and the broken stem. They’re healthy. They’re thriving.
Each Monday, I fill the antique kettle, and water my plants. It takes little time, and even less effort. Yet, with just that, the plants root, re-root, and grow.
