Houseplants

© 2010 bridges association My mother, concave with age, grabs my wrist as I enter the foyer. “Good!” she whispers, lips pursed so as to enunciate clearly. “And you’re not even late. You used to drive your father crazy with lateness, remember? I thought he’d get sick with worry. But now, thank God, you’re here. Are you hungry?” I pat my stomach, pushing it out to prove I’m full. My mother, small eyes deeply set and very bright, nods. “I asked you to care for these plants,” she says, “because, of all of my children, you’re the one who loves to grow things. And these are old, you’ll see, from way before your father’s last heart attack, may he rest in peace.” “But Sam says he’ll water them,” I remind her. “You don’t have to give them up.” Slapping the air with the palm of her hand, my mother shakes her head. “Sam’s busy. What, he’s gonna travel an hour on the train and an hour back to water plants? I’m going to Florida, I don’t want to worry about them—or him. Help me.” “Sure.” I take off my coat. When my mother hugs me, I feel the Vaseline on her face. “I’m dry, and it takes away the lines,” she explains when I touch the oil now on my cheek. “Besides, it’s very cheap.” Indeed, my mother’s head looks like a large slippery flower on a gnarled stalk. “I don’t know if they’re doing very well,” she admits as we walk to the guest room. At first glance the plants look OK: decent color, upright stance. But then I see how lanky they are, and how anorexic their stems. One rubber plant is staked, as it hasn’t the strength to stand on its own. A six-foot aluminum plant supported by sticks is producing a leaf every two or three inches. And the philodendron, perhaps seven-trellised-feet tall, is at its base as thin as a string. Houseplants