When my father passed
away, the funeral director asked us to take home the potted plants people had
sent to adorn the chapel. The cemetery
only wanted fresh-cut flowers at his grave site. We each chose a plant and for
the last thirteen years I have struggled to keep mine alive. Every plant in the
pot died except for one. It’s a tall woody thing with green leaves striated
with yellow stripes.
There have been years
when it was near death and I could only get it to keep two or three leaves. I have tried to recreate what the arrangement
looked like and bought new plants to fill the empty spaces, but they never last.
This past year, it took on new life. It
filled out with leaves though I had done nothing different.
When my mother passed
away last year, the funeral director asked my brothers, sisters, and me to take
home the potted plants people had sent to adorn the chapel where we held her
visitation and rosary. I let everyone choose first and took home the one that
remained. I put it on the same shelf where I keep dad’s plant. In the last ten months, some of her plants
have died, and I have struggled to water and feed it to keep it going.
I don’t think these
arrangements are meant to last, either they are potted right before delivery and
haven’t taken root, or they are matched only for aesthetics and the plants are
not compatible. Some need water; some don’t. Some need sunlight; some don’t. Mother’s plant has hard soil. Water rolls off
it, so I have to set it in the sink and soak it in order to reach the plants’
roots. Neither arrangement looks like it did when I brought it home.
Why do I bother?
Every morning when I sit
at the kitchen table and drink my morning coffee, I look across at the shelf
where I placed the plants. I think about how my dad’s plant held on all this
time until my mom’s plant could join him. They are together again and it amuses
me.
