There’s a Window in the Kitchen
“The plants are dying…”
There was no way to grow a garden in a 9th floor Bronx apartment. Not even on the roof where the pigeons roosted and held family meetings between head bobs and shoo aways by those who flocked the block. There was no grass to behold considering the concrete sidewalks, but during the spring you may have witnessed a blade or two of grass prosper in between the cracks. Yet, this didn’t stop my mother from having a green thumb. The move to New Jersey allowed her to deepen her love for gardening and widen her knowledge about what to plant around our new home. The apple tree was not planted by us and neither were the wild scallions but she and the neighbor had a way of exchanging tomatoes and squash. My father gained a likened to squash sautéed in butter. When it gained an extra crispiness he loved it even more.
The outdoor plants were no match for the indoor ones though. I took a liking to those believing that owning houseplants was part of my adulting rites of passage. I convinced myself that I’d one day be able to nurture plants on my own albeit I was surrounded by friends who were green thumbless. Losing my mother deepened my desire to prove that I had a green thumb too and why wouldn’t I considering I was her daughter. It just made sense.
Upon moving my daughter and I into our Brooklyn apartment, I purchased a series of plants, being mindful to only get ones that could survive with limited attention and light. My daughter and I named one of our first plants after my mother. Platies. We stuck to a consistent watering and pruning schedule and when the urge to buy another plant crept up, my daughter was the one to tame my impulsive tendency to just go get another plant. Although she appreciated my progressive green thumb, she didn’t want our little, two-bedroom apartment to become a forest scape. We didn’t have kitchen windows or outdoor sills to add the plants to so our bedrooms and living room sills were the only places we could find a peek of sun. Platies grew well until she stopped growing so when it was time to for my daughter and I to move to New Jersey, we gave her a sweet benediction and toted the plants that lived.
It felt like we were letting go and moving forward at the same time. A faith stretch, if you will.
Upon moving into our new place, I became ecstatic about the idea of having our plants outdoors. I didn’t consider placing them near the kitchen window because I was used to not having one for five years. Cracking the barred window and stoop sitting was the most we had. Leaping into new territory without releasing what once was had a way of leaving me programmed to the past. Salty. My daughter raised her attention on the health of the plants because like them, she finally had somewhere outside to belong. The eucalyptus and spider plants stayed indoors. The others were gently placed outdoors. I mean it was summer, but it felt like spring. I honestly didn’t think the plants would suffer on their new patio corners but their browning leaves told otherwise. And I still didn’t consider the kitchen window. My programming had yet changed. We were in a new place but the reality of living in a new place did not quite fire.
“Mommy, maybe we need to bring the plants inside. They are dying.”
She was right, but they needed to be pruned first.
I snipped away at each part that sucked the remaining lives of the plants. I trimmed and trimmed until all of the dead and dying was removed from them. They became naked. Like them, I too became undressed, coated in the fear that they wouldn’t grow back, that I’d disappointed my late mother. I placed them near the window sill above the kitchen counter before watering them. I cracked the blinds to invite a peek of sun and prepared a cup of tea. Sigh. I stared out the kitchen window reeling about whether or not I sent the plants to their own demise by placing them outside. Was it too much heat? Not enough water? Should I have trimmed them sooner? I grabbed a orange cinnamon tea bag and wildflower honey and steeped the tea bag in the hot water. I dripped two tablespoons of honey into the cup and stirred for the tea and honey to marry. Leaning over the kitchen counter, I began to ponder with a bit more belief. We actually have a kitchen window. I’m really leaning on a counter in front of our kitchen window. They will live because we are coming alive together.
After a few days, we noticed a second wind in their leaves. They were firmer and sure. I also noticed a new wind in our routine. We were safer and lighter.
“Mommy, don’t forget to water the plants today!”
“Thank you mamas. I won’t forget. We have a kitchen window this time.”
We smiled together knowing what it meant to arrive at a new place in our lives unmanufactured by our human hands. The kitchen counter meant more than a cosmetic addition. It was a statement of the leap we made in leaving Brooklyn and the new agreement we were making with God in starting anew.
We’re gonna be just fine.
Mustard seed faith, a little cutting and some sun and water goes a long way…
