There is a plant on my windowsill that has survived, against all reasonable expectation, for going on three years. I don’t know its name. I bought it at a hardware store because it was marked down to two dollars and the tag said low maintenance, which I interpreted as thrives on neglect. It does not thrive. But it persists, which I’ve come to respect almost more.
I call it Gerald.
Every few days I walk past Gerald and think, I should water that thing. And then I do what I do with most good intentions — I carry the thought with me for a while, let it feel productive, and set it down somewhere I won’t find it again. By the time I remember, Gerald has developed that particular lean that plants get when they’re making a theological point.
I have watered Gerald in bursts of guilt, the way I sometimes clean the car — not out of discipline, but because something happened that made avoidance impossible. Once, company was coming. Once, I knocked him off the sill and felt terrible about it. Once I simply couldn’t find the remote and had a good long look around the room.
He is, I believe, surviving on spiritual reserves and stubbornness.
My wife has suggested, twice now, that I simply move Gerald to the kitchen where I’d see him more often. This is a sensible solution. I have not done it. There’s a part of me, and I’m not proud of this, that has come to find Gerald useful exactly where he is — just far enough away to forget, just close enough to feel the low hum of responsibility.
He is, in this way, not entirely unlike certain emails in my inbox.
I watered him this morning, actually. Gave him a proper drink, turned him so the other side could catch some light, stood there for a moment feeling disproportionately virtuous. Gerald did not respond with visible gratitude. He just sat there, leaning slightly east, which I think is his version of grace.
I told him I’d do better. He’s heard it before. But he’s still here, and honestly, so am I, and some mornings that’s enough to go on.