Once inside and away from the chilly weather, the jade plants in their big clay pots turned quickly to face the tall south window. The glass is cool this time of year, as the fairy tale sunlight calls to them through the open wooden blinds. The smaller of the two pots holds three plants made from cuttings several years ago, taken from my mother’s twenty-year-old plant, the trunk of which was divided into branches as thick as my arm, and which was losing chunks and pieces as the core finally began rotting away. The larger of the two pots contains seven plants taken from the same source a couple of years later, and which are a shiny, healthy, happy jungle. The original plant is no more, having passed on to jade heaven, where its essence mingles with that of countless jade kingdoms whose names, if they had them, have all been lost.
Before bringing in the plants for the winter, they had the good fortune to spend a few last days and nights outdoors, where they enjoyed mild temperatures between frosty spells, and one final rain in which they reveled, and which made the larger pot so heavy I needed to use a hand truck to bring it through the garage to the back of the house and to the sliding door that opens on the backyard, just a few feet from their winter home.
If I survive, come April or May, I will move them outside again. If I do not survive, someone else will have that pleasure; or maybe the decision will be made to leave them where they are. Their growth would slow, but with the wisdom and patience derived from their long lineage, I am sure they would adapt and understand.
November 12, 2020
Almost winter; rain;
and what do I remember?
A pomegranate tree
Recently Banned Literature, November 19, 2013
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