Friday, 18 July 2025

Houseplants

The first plant was a rescue.

Cracked ceramic, bruised roots,

a spine like protest —

I saw myself in its stubborn lean.

I sang to it songs banned in five states,

quoted Audre Lorde and Ambedkar

like sunlight through smog.

I let it grow wild,

let its leaves fall where they pleased.

No pruning. No judgment.

It thrived on irreverence

till one day, it snapped —

out of sheer integrity.


Died of defiance,

some said.

Refused to be tamed,

said others.

I buried it in my compost of causes

and called it martyrdom.


The second one arrived already potted,

gift-wrapped in digestible aesthetics.

A brand-approved green.

Succulent enough to survive any neglect,

it needed no revolution —

just a routine.


I watered it on Tuesdays,

talked to it in marketable metaphors.

Called it Hope

in a tone soft enough

for workshops.


It grew,

predictably.

Framed itself against my bookshelf,

learnt how to pose for reels.

Became the backdrop

to my better self.


Guests adored it.

“Such poise,” they said.

“Such balance.”


It never once asked to be repotted.

Never once asked anything at all.


But I remember the first —

that cracked vessel of refusal.

How it bent away from applause

and toward its own collapse.

How it chose extinction

over assimilation.


And some nights,

when the second plant looks

a little too perfect —

I’m tempted to withhold water

just to see

if it remembers

what droughts can do

to the soul.


Instead,

I mist it gently,

rotate it for symmetry,

rename it Perseverance

so the platform features it.


The neighbors call it healing.

I call it

what they’ve always called surrender:

growth.

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