The Plant Above the Cabinet 🌱

When I met my partner, I had a terrible green thumb. I couldn’t keep anything alive (not even a succulent). She, on the other hand, loved plants. She had worked in a garden before and filled our home with houseplants. I was intimidated by them at first. When I moved in, I didn’t dare take responsibility for them. I was afraid I’d drown them, kill something she loved.

But I watched her closely.

She had a way of listening to the plants… of really knowing them. If a leaf drooped, she’d shift its light. If the soil felt dry, she’d water. It was never rigid. It was never on a schedule. It was just intuitive, responsive. Gentle. And over time, I began to notice what she noticed. I started to care, deeply. A new leaf, a little bud, a shift in color started to bring me joy too.

Eventually, I began helping. And then, when we moved into the new house together, I took over their care. I remember feeling proud when they started thriving under my watch. They had grown so much. We had grown so much.

When we split, I took a few clippings. I brought with me the two plants that were mine and gifts from her.

In the blur of moving, the start of a new job, and the heavy weight of depression, the clippings died. I didn’t even notice it right away. They just… didn’t make it. Now, in my new house, one plant remains. It sits above my kitchen cabinets. She gave it to me. I thought I would want to take care of it… that I’d cherish it as a reminder of something beautiful.

But since February, I haven’t watered it once.

It’s dying. The vines are brittle and dry. They’ve gone brown and papery. And yet, somehow, it’s still growing. New leaves keep unfurling, stretching toward the light. It’s so strange.

I have this fixation that the plant is mirroring me.

So much of me feels wilted. Tired. Touched by grief. But some small part, maybe deep in the roots, is still pushing forward. Still reaching. Still trying.

I don’t know if I’ll ever water that plant again. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I’ll wait too long. Maybe I’m afraid of what caring for it might mean.

Maybe it’s just enough, for now, to know that something is still growing, even in the neglect, even in the aftermath.

Maybe that’s what healing looks like.