My Current Stage of Grief is “Houseplants”
I get it now, plant people. I am officially one of you.
For years, I owned a single houseplant — a Christmas cactus that was a gift from my sister-in-law. She has a much greener thumb than me, so I expected that it would quickly die. But after ten years of lukewarm attention, it’s thriving.
It blooms about three times a year, producing large, phallic, hot pink flowers that burst forth from its spiky green leaves like sentinels. It’s outgrown at least four pots and takes up most of an entire window. I’ll probably need to re-pot it again this year.
That Christmas cactus literally survived a decade of neglect. The fact that it’s been thriving all these years is inexplicable. I’ve never been particularly good at keeping plants alive, so I avoid buying them. No green thumb over here.
Then, last spring, something in my brain shifted. I’d survived the sixth winter without my older daughter, got through March (the month she died), and found myself on the far side of middle age. I started menopause with a thud, weighed the heaviest I’ve ever weighed, and experienced the disintegration of several friendships that had meant a lot to me.
I felt adrift, but not in the same way I’d been after Ana died. I was depressed and lonely. I felt like the…
