Unrushed Grief

This disruption seemed to ruin you, but I knew better.

Although little remained of what you once were, I pulled your recognizable sections carefully from the waterlogged soil, never fully ceasing to believe you would thrive again.

Settled on the kitchen windowsill in a clear glass of water, I watched your roots extend and branch off until they ran out of space.

While your appearance above water hadn’t changed, your roots told a different story, so I transferred you to a new pot with new soil.

And I waited for your stunted stems and leaves to spill over the rim of the pot and down its sides as they once had.

Yet day after day and week after week, nothing happened.

Your leaves didn’t fall off . . . and they didn’t grow. Even the tiniest leaves persisted but didn’t increase in size.

It’s like you were suspended in time.

A still life.

Each day, I inspected your soil, cautious of over or under watering, and I carried you from one sunny spot in the house to another.

Until a change occurred.

All of your larger leaves had curled in on themselves, like a baby’s hand grasping a parent’s finger.

You communicated an unforeseen level of stress that drove you to preservation.

No producing, only conserving.

A still life.

Abiding.

More time has passed, and most—but not all—of your leaves have unfurled. There’s new growth. You’re standing taller and beginning to spill over your container.

Today, we sit at this table together, each reflected in the other.

An image of resilience.

An image of flourishing.

An image of unrushed grief.