I knew something was wrong when I saw yellow.
My Alocasia “Frydek” was not doing well. We were two months into San Francisco’s shelter-in-place order, and the plant’s grand, scalloped leaves were blushing in disconcerting patches. The velvety emerald was fading, dappled by sunshine-colored spots.
Over the course of three years I’ve amassed a considerable amount of succulents, tropical species and cacti. After suffering a few devastating plant deaths, I assumed a que sera, sera approach. Perhaps to the detriment of my green children, I was learning by trial and error. By letting things exist and seeing what happened.
I watered my plants regularly, treated pests dutifully, swapped their shelf spots to maximize lighting conditions and checked for soggy soil. I did the research to figure out what could be ailing them, but when a plant continued to shrivel or drop leaves or show signs of irreparable damage, I deemed it a lost cause. A betrayal of sorts.
The Frydek’s leaves turned goldenrod and died. I stripped them off. Its little neighboring offshoots, those died too. A single, thin whitish stalk remained. It seemed like this was the end. I chalked it up to a fungus gnat casualty; I had treated the plant’s infestation with too little too late, the repotting and multiple rounds of remedies no match for larvae sucking the life out of the roots.
I left the plant in its place by the kitchen window, the surviving stalk surrounded by a circle of dark soil.
I waited. I lost hope. I regained it. I continued to wait.
Tasks and chores and responsibilities took precedence. The will-it-live-or-will-it-die anticipation subsided. The Frydek caught my eye when I walked past to grab a drink from the fridge or cook dinner, but I’d made peace with the fact that it may never recover. Though I felt defeated, I also felt a sense of calm.
Its striking foliage had brought me immeasurable joy. I’d enjoyed it in its heyday. It had survived the move from one apartment to the next. The lush, curvaceous leaves were gone, but the memory persisted. It was a reminder of things lost, but also a reminder to live in the moment. To enjoy beauty and life while it’s right in front of you.
Slowly, slowly, one edge of the pale stalk began to stand taller. It seemed to take years, but finally a leaf blade unfurled. And then another. Two new pups shot up around it. I misted the newcomers with fervor and watched the leaves tip towards the sun. The Frydek was back, as if it had never left, totally unaware of the effects of its absence.
I have learned many things from plants, including that I cannot trust them. But knowing their delicate nature — how lingering sun rays, cold drafts or drenched soil can devastate — I can’t blame them for it. I can only study them closely and give them what I think they need. I can care for them and love them, but I must also come to terms with their indifference. That even if I wait, they may be gone forever.
The waiting is not over. I am still hoping a little unidentified tree, plucked years ago from the farmer’s market, will spring back into action. A chilly winter and months of sitting in the heater’s path reduced it to nothing but a trunk with flaky bark and twiggy branches. I know that this was my fault.
Still, I wait. A new leaf could emerge suddenly, before I am able to clock how much time has passed. With it, a returning thrill of new beginnings.
Catch up on past installments of interior monologue: