While still miles apart, Greg had the brilliant idea of gifting me with a small bamboo plant on our anniversary. In my excitement – and complete lack of foresight – I named the plant Hope. It was a romantic idea at the time for what the plant symbolized: no matter how long the road is (re Marriage Visa obstacle), we will be together in the end.
Little did I know that its name and its short life would be fodder for dark humor. Our conversations used to be peppered with quips about Hope’s status that’s also meant as a jab at the status of my visa application.
Hope is thriving.
Hope is looking dry.
Hope is withering.
Hope’s leaves are falling.
Hope is dead.
One night home I brought up the topic of me trying my hand again at taking care of plants since we have a small space for some greens. It should be noted that Hope wasn’t the only plant that didn’t thrive in my care. There is a long list of plants that have succumbed to their ill fate with me. All hardy plants like bamboos, fortune plant, and orchids that are supposed to survive under minimal care became soil fertilizers in my hands.
Having reminded myself of my poor track record, with the self-awareness of someone who had seen her own share of fallen leaves, I solemnly took back my plant suggestion.
Greg with the usual seriousness he regards my sometimes mundane issues, looked at our daughter and softly pinched her chubby cheeks, before saying,
“You’re better with babies.”