Relationships: Some plants, or friendships, you just can’t kill

During my disco college days, I dragged around the same mangy houseplant from dorm to apartment to shared house. Upon graduation, I said a tepid “so long” to the starved plant, leaving it on the windowsill of my last residence for some random roommate to water.

Now, I don’t believe I’m a cruel person. I’m just not good at nurturing plants. Or is that relationships?
I still think about my tenacious little weed as I search for my Bees Gees CD. I picture the little guy perfectly, its one limp leaf, its stem in soil so dry and tight it reminded me of a dug-up Peruvian mummy. I see the sad sprite, but for the life of me, I can’t picture the housemate.

I don’t think I’m a cold person for that. I’m just not that good at remembering names. Or maybe I can blame it on the 1970s, John Travolta, polyester pants or platform shoes. Um, I don’t think so. The learning came earlier in life.

I moved around a lot as a kid. Memorizing classmates’ names always took a back seat to safeguarding my youthful shoots. When Mom said, “Stay off the phone, your father is expecting a call,” I knew I’d soon be yanked up and transplanted to a new state, to a new school, to untilled ground. But I’d spread my roots as fast as I could, before the end of semester, before the phone would ring again.

By college, my favorite plant was a misanthropic dandelion seed drifting on the wind.

Although I bravely battled isolation in my youth, I now embrace it as I shift into the autumn of my days, as I hum along with the soft jazz pumped through the grocery store. Many times I’ve cringed at myself in front of the red-leaf lettuce.

Fall now has shaken the last leaves from my trees, and I’m forced into the claustrophobic mood I call winter; my spirits gray. I finally find my Bees Gees CD and spin the disc as I drag a droopy geranium from frosty porch to warm kitchen; this one has survived my neglect for years.

The geranium makes me think about my college plant just as my favorite song begins to play. I take a break from the schlepping and point my finger in the air, thrust my hip out to the side and sing at the top of my lungs, “Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.”

– By Bridget Cassidy

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