I stare at what remains of Phoenix, my first and oldest house plant, an Areca palm, now leafless with two short stems and a root practically broken in half. I stare at Norm, my first cat, a two-year-old, who’s been meowing at me since 5am, probably to show me his green reward.
I am reminded of what my roommate said yesterday, “Whoever thought you would have to choose between your plant and your cat?” I had cradled Phoenix in my arms then as Norm had already attempted to cut off its circulation. This apartment seems to be a death wish for houseplants. Out of the six I moved here, only two remain. But I thought for sure Phoenix would be one of them.
This plant has been through everything with me from moving into my first apartment, going back to graduate school, ending my first long-term relationship, and then ending my second. I know I shouldn’t look so much into it, but its presence has always been a staple in my life, and now it’s evident whatever life remained is gone.
How many times have I done this in the past six months? I try for as long as I can to save the green, but there comes a point when I must recognize there is nothing left saving, and I return the crumbled roots back to the Earth. Continue reading