The Plant

When we told Cassie the evening that Grandpa Guy died, one of the first things she said, through her sobs, almost desperately, was “What about the plant? Who’s going to take care of the plant?” It might seem like an odd thought to have at that moment. But we had seen Grandpa Guy not long before, and Cassie, like most of his visitors, had been refreshed on the history and care of The Plant: how Jen had brought The Plant to Grandpa Guy from Hawaii many years earlier, and how it had thrived all those years through a simple weekly regimen of having its roots soaked in water for half an hour before being replaced in its small dish, where The Plant resided in its place of honor, in the heart of the picture window in the dining room, looking out over the corner of Central Boulevard and Belmont Avenue, perched just above Grandpa Guy and Grandma Pina’s beloved flaming azalea bushes. Mom and I assured Cassie that we would bring The Plant home and take good care of it.

Cassie was not alone in her concern for The Plant’s welfare. At Grandpa Guy’s memorial, Jen also wondered what would become of The Plant. She told me something I hadn’t known before—that several other plants also came back with her, but they had died over the years, leaving only The Plant to carry the Hawaiian torch on its Long Island throne. I promised her, like Cassie, that Mom, with her golden gardening touch, and I would watch over The Plant.

And so Mom and I are now the Stewards of The Plant, lovingly bathing it (just for half an hour!) every week before returning it to the dish where The Plant now resides on our dining room table, looking out past the tulip poplars soaring up over our deck to Carter Mountain beyond. The Plant seems to be doing well there, even showing signs of some new growth, so maybe it is enjoying the change of scenery and the “Dixie air,” as Grandpa Guy would say.

I like having The Plant there, where I can see it while I’m cooking just a few feet away, and where it keeps us company while we eat the dinner I’ve made. The Plant can’t spin a yarn like Grandpa Guy (who could?), but I feel like his many stories are all in there, having penetrated the bark and down deep into the roots, after being exposed to them over and over in Grandpa Guy’s dining room all those years. And now when I glance over at The Plant on my left during dinner, I hear the stories seeping out of the leaves, swirling in the air all around us.