It’s just a plant. On some level I know that. But, on another level, it’s much more. It’s a tree actually; a Dracaena Lemon Lime. A dear friend sent this little tree to my family about four years ago when my grandmother passed away. It was a beautiful gesture, and I am still touched by her thoughtfulness.
But, what’s utterly amazing is that somehow, I’ve kept this plant alive. It’s in the corner of my dining room by a window. It soaks up the afternoon sun and gets watered when I think about it. I rotate the tree when I water it, hoping to keep it from getting too much sun on one side, just like when you’re sunbathing on the beach.
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| Thriving in my dark office |
I don’t have a good track record with keeping plants alive. I killed a succulent that lived for months on my sunny kitchen table. The Confederate Roses (you’re probably supposed to call them something else now) I planted in my backyard got waterlogged and never bloomed. And, a lovely Tobacco Plant died over Christmas break when I decided it would be fine to leave it for two weeks on a pedestal beside my office at school.
So, it wasn’t a huge surprise when, in the last year or so, the Dracaena Lemon Lime hasn’t looked its best. I tried watering it less, cutting off brown parts of its leaves, even ignoring it (my preferred plant parenting strategy). Nothing worked. This Dracaena Lemon Lime is dead.
I thought it was dead once before. I was sad and tried to overlook the fact that it had lost some leaves and the ones that were left were looking either peaky or crispy and brown. But, amazingly, after a few weeks, a new leaf or two sprouted, light green and perky from the top of the little tree. It rebounded with a bit of determination and gusto. Short-lived but even so.
It’s not going to happen this time. I should come to terms with it and let it go. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It seems cruel and unnecessary, like I’m giving up on my grandmother and life and hope.
Yes, I realize that sounds dramatic. I also realize it’s just a plant.
I had a similar situation after our last move. Eighteen years earlier, my father passed away and I was gifted a beautiful Peace Lily. It lived through moves from Texas to Nebraska and from Nebraska to Pennsylvania, then from Pennsylvania to Alabama. I think Jesus knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it if this particular plant died. I did my usual ignoring thing, hoping to find a place where the Peace Lily happened to thrive. And, it worked, for a while. Years actually. But, one day I noticed that the Peace Lily only had a leaf or two. Then, one of the leaves got a brown spot that started creeping its way toward the roots.
I tried to water it a little more, then I tried to water it a little less. Nothing slowed the deadly progression. I even called my mom, my plant guru, and she said something really helpful like, “Oh Amy, just stick your finger in the dirt to see if it feels dry.” I did that, but either my finger doesn’t detect dryness or the plant never looked like it needed a drink.
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| A bold gift from a friend |
Then, one day, the Peace Lily was gone. All that was left was a brown stick coming out of the soil. Eventually, even that disappeared. Unable to throw the Peace Lily away, I moved the pot to the top of the freezer in my laundry room. I saw it regularly, but rarely thought about it. The Peace Lily didn’t get watered or talked to. I went on about my life, finding a new job, taking care of the Dracaena Lemon Lime, mourning my grandmother.
Then one day I decided to clean off the top of the freezer and lo and behold, there was a tender, green leaf coming out of the dead Peace Lily. There was much rejoicing as I decided to start caring for the plant again. But all too soon, the Peace Lily gave up the ghost and I found the strength to throw it in the trash can just outside the laundry room window.
Funny, isn’t it, how something as insignificant as a plant can make or break you. It’s not like I’m throwing away my dad or all my memories of him. I’m not tossing the butterfly pin that belonged to my grandmother or her kitchen table.
But, letting go of these plants kind of feels like I’m letting go of something much more precious, something much more tender than a new leaf, much more beautiful than a healthy, lush plant in the corner of my dining room.
And why do people give you plants when a loved one dies anyway? How did that tradition begin? You’re at your most vulnerable and tired and preoccupied. You probably aren’t taking great care of yourself, so how can you be expected to take care of a fragile plant as well? Maybe that’s the point.
A plant needs you. It needs you to crawl out of the recliner and give it water. It needs you to dust off the coffee table to make space for something beautiful. And, maybe it’s more important to be needed in the midst of your grief than it is to sleep a bit more or watch another movie.
Missing people makes you do some silly things, like hanging onto chairs that are broken because they were hers or picking up the phone to call someone who isn’t there when you want to cook a slab of ribs. But I know what my grandmom and my dad would say about me keeping these plants. They’d think I was crazy and they’d say, “Throw that old, ugly plant away, Amy. It isn’t doing anything for you.”
I should listen to them and honor that thought. But this time, I don’t really have the strength to toss the Dracaena Lemon Lime. Not yet. Maybe I’ll just move it to the top of the freezer in my laundry room and hope for the best.
Then one day I decided to clean off the top of the freezer and lo and behold, there was a tender, green leaf coming out of the dead Peace Lily. There was much rejoicing as I decided to start caring for the plant again. But all too soon, the Peace Lily gave up the ghost and I found the strength to throw it in the trash can just outside the laundry room window.
Funny, isn’t it, how something as insignificant as a plant can make or break you. It’s not like I’m throwing away my dad or all my memories of him. I’m not tossing the butterfly pin that belonged to my grandmother or her kitchen table.
But, letting go of these plants kind of feels like I’m letting go of something much more precious, something much more tender than a new leaf, much more beautiful than a healthy, lush plant in the corner of my dining room.
And why do people give you plants when a loved one dies anyway? How did that tradition begin? You’re at your most vulnerable and tired and preoccupied. You probably aren’t taking great care of yourself, so how can you be expected to take care of a fragile plant as well? Maybe that’s the point.
A plant needs you. It needs you to crawl out of the recliner and give it water. It needs you to dust off the coffee table to make space for something beautiful. And, maybe it’s more important to be needed in the midst of your grief than it is to sleep a bit more or watch another movie.
Missing people makes you do some silly things, like hanging onto chairs that are broken because they were hers or picking up the phone to call someone who isn’t there when you want to cook a slab of ribs. But I know what my grandmom and my dad would say about me keeping these plants. They’d think I was crazy and they’d say, “Throw that old, ugly plant away, Amy. It isn’t doing anything for you.”
I should listen to them and honor that thought. But this time, I don’t really have the strength to toss the Dracaena Lemon Lime. Not yet. Maybe I’ll just move it to the top of the freezer in my laundry room and hope for the best.
