Morning, and Stephen's head is in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, talking up to me about last night's dream as I sit at my computer. Talking about taking down the Christmas tree, finally, this weekend.
He looks away, into the kitchen, then back up to me. "Boy," he says. "That little succulent? When it decided to go, it went."
That little succulent is one of two that came as part of the bouquet of flowers my sister Lizehte sent us when we said goodbye to Nicholas back in September. There was a little card with the flowers that said you could take the succulents and plant them and they would grow. It felt like the perfect thing for that sad time, something that could grow, although the flowers were so hearty, we left them in the vase so long, one of the succulents, when we finally went to plant them, didn't look great. The other did, and there was a long root hanging from the bottom of its cut-off stump. Stephen planted the two side by side in a squat, blue pot and put in on the kitchen counter.
The one always looked healthy and the one always looked a little sickly but I hoped they'd both thrive eventually. Sometimes I'd put the tip of my finger in the little cradle of one of their thick leaves and feel Nicholas the way you can feel the hint of the life in all things if you look for it.
"What will you do with it?" I ask.
"Well," Stephen says, "it's nothing but dead leaves."
"Will you toss it in the garden? Maybe back by the tree? Instead of tossing it in the trash?"
He thinks a moment. "Sure. Okay."
I'm going to cry. "Thanks," I say.
"Alright," he says. "I'm going to have some coffee."
No comments:
Post a Comment