I hate this plant. I don’t even know what kind it is. It sits in the corner of the room by the sliding deck doors. It always seems to have yellow and dying leaves. I haven’t repotted it since I got it so the soil is poor. Whenever I water it just a little, it sieves right through and leaks out onto the floor.
It doesn’t flower. I hardly can tell it grows except I did take a cutting and plant it, with success. The cutting rooted and was potted and sits on a side table away from its parent plant. It seems a bit healthier, but it hardly catches my attention when I walk by it a half dozen times a day, every day.
Every once in a while, I’ll turn it so it can readjust its lean towards the sun. But other than that and watering it once every couple of weeks (if it’s lucky), I ignore it. I – as I said initially – hate it.
So why do I keep it? Why not just pitch it out into the field in my backyard and see if the deer will enjoy it?
Why not, indeed.
It’s the plant that welcomed me home from my first D&C five years and eleven months ago.
It represents death, sorrow, loss. It lives with little care or attention from me. Which may be why I despise it all the more.
I am the face of Miscarriage, of Stillbirth, of Infant Loss.