A pathetic jade-like plant sits in a small pot amongst an African violet and a dead succulent near the bedroom window. This morning sunlight bathed it. The edges of its tiny thumb-like leaves glowed. Observing these golden hues, I thought of auras. Outside it had rained through much of the morning. Anxiety and life and whatever else had jostled me awake for short bursts throughout the early hours. Fragments of these moments remain retained, thereby counterpointing this floodlit plant with the foggy vapors of the dawn’s heavy rains. Now, as I accept my first motions toward entering the day ahead, this plant strikes me with its beauty. It resembles a bonsai tree in its diminutive state. It grows horizontally, threatening eventual doom should it not expand other directions. We rotate it, but it maintains a consistent path regardless of to which cardinal point this finger-like projection aims. Perhaps this shelf serves as an offering to Osiris, Hel, Hades or whomever plants might worship, for the blooms of the violet have shrived and now decay within the center of the plant’s mass.
We know not the species of the dead succulent, though when alive it sported fine hairs that Kelly would stroke daily while at work. She enjoyed how it felt, finding it odd yet soothing. I never touched the plant for we transported it home once the lockdown began, and it did not survive the transportation. Some plants live to die, in that they grow in unsustainable fashions, branching out in one direction so as to tip their pots or to an extent that their structure cannot handle.
This plant espoused suicide through its growth patterns. Finicky and temperamental, the combination of a self-destructive growth pattern, some temporary neglect due to the work-from-home transition, and a minor calamity when it tipped over while traveling home, thereby ripping it from its dirt bedding, thereby destroying many of its roots. At home, it progressed from green to brown; its integrity softened. One day, it exploded. Or, maybe a better description is deflated for suddenly moisture released, wetting the dirt, leaving behind skin reminiscent more of a snake shedding than of a plant. Light’s warmth dried the soil, desiccated the plant. We let its carcass remain. A sort of chalk outline of a memory of what once was.
One day we’ll replace the dead plant with something new. Perhaps we’ll locate another of the its species and continue its story in the guise of a 2.0 version. For now, we have this triad of fading beauty, bizarre life choices, and extinguished promise. Yet, how the sun strikes the jade makes me rethink how I conceive this shelf. It’s so beautiful, the plant and its illumination. This world can be so splendid, I remember. The sky has taken on pastel hues. Even the water-drenched bricks along the highest portions of the buildings in view conjure a sense of beauty and mystery. I picture the droplets soaking into the bricks, flowing within in a manner reminiscent to a creek cascading down rocky mountain slopes. Some doves swoop past, seeking balconies higher than my window view grants my vision access.
Yesterday I felt a tad overwhelmed by the news. Certain ailments have always caused me distress. As in, the concept of them pains me. To contemplate what causes them and their effects causes me distress. Strokes and heart attacks terrify me. Their prospect cripples me upon thinking of them for I then imagine what it might be like to suffer their brutality. Seeing that blood clots is a manifestation of this enigmatic disease that’s overtaken our world society left me feeling helpless. Strokes. Bodies turned against themselves. The demon inside being literally just that. It’s incapacitating.
What scares me the most is not dying but, rather, thinking about what it would be like for loved ones. They’re the ones that carry any burden of my passing. I think of trivial things such as purchases that are soon arriving in the mail, trinkets that my girlfriend should not need to deal with in terms of donating or selling. Even the surprise of the arrival would remind her of loss. To gain is to remember what you have lost, at times. I think of bank accounts, credit statements, possessions, and all of the associated work. I worry about where my savings will end up, and whom can access it, or, more importantly, who might lack access. These things are trivial, I realize, but they’re ways to ignore the more pressing aspects of loss. To think that the adventures and memories we had planned will be never achieved. To believe that inside jokes will no longer be replicated.
Everyone will forge on, but that I will have become a story of loss saddens me. My solace is that I know that we can adapt, and I guess that’s the paradox of my fear. If one of us were to succumb I’d rather it be me, though I know that I could handle any loss, but I’d rather not wish that need on anyone else. In the confused state that results from this confusion, I know that we must both survive, but that we might not is what terrifies me.
Each person out there would be severely missed if lost, and each day we see the death toll numbers increase. It’s a bit much at times, which is why I stare at the sunlit ovals and reach my fingertips toward Kelly. She murmurs an appreciative noise as she stretches in response to the contact. I glance over to see a slight smile. Upturned lips, always a delightful sight. No idea what comes next, but staying alive to try to spark such wonders, her happiness and all that it brings, shall remain a bedrock of my metaphorical soul.
Reminded of pleasures and of possibilities, I left the bed to make come coffee and pancakes and to take on the world. It’s a lazy Friday full of reading, some gaming, contact with friends via technology, and whatever else shall arrive at our door.