Non-fiction: A Pothos Plant

My great-grandmother had a pothos plant. 

It's a type of viney plant that can look very similar to a philodenron.

When my grandmother inherited the plant, she split it into three pots because it had grown so large.

Pothos plants can grow pretty rapidly given the right conditions, and they are hearty survivors.

When my mother inherited the three plants, she decided that when my siblings and I moved out, we'd each get one -- my older sister moved out first.

One thing that pothos plants can't survive are cats that chew on them. So, my sister gave me hers when I moved out.

Because this meant that I had two pothos plants, I kept "mine" at my apartment and "my sister's" in my office at work.

Now undisturbed, her plant quickly recovered from the cats, and within a year went from having 4 vines and 30 leaves, to this Jumanji-aspiring beauty -- crawling along the walls for meters, filled with over one hundred leaves.

Eventually, I took some cuttings and propagated a baby of this amazing plant to keep in my apartment. The baby did alright, but it was never as magnificent as its parent -- it would take some time before it could reach such ample lengths.

Then COVID happened.

The office was closing for two weeks, but after that we'd be able to get back in and resume activities as normal. Clear out perishables in the fridge and take home what you would need for work, but don't worry about plants or things like that unless you're trying to grow an orchid or something delicate in your space -- that's essentially what we were told.

So, I believed we'd be back. Even if it turned out to be as long as one month, I knew pothos plants were hearty. I gave my sister's plant a big drink of water and left it there. I had a small apartment, I really didn't have any space for it, especially now that I had the baby pothos there and my own.

We weren't allowed back.

Not for a full year.

I had failed my sister's plant. I felt like I should have snuck back into the office one night to recover it, but I didn't because I was afraid I'd be caught and lose my job. When I finally returned to the office, the plant was dead.

I had given up my apartment early on during the pandemic because I was worried about the pending cuts at work due to budget shortfalls. I moved back in with my parents. I brought the dead pothos plant with me. The pot and dirt could still be used in the summer for an herb garden, I reasoned.

I put it in the garage with the gardening supplies.

"Pothos plants are hearty," my mom said. "Try watering it and stick it by a window. See what happens."

I pulled it out. Placed it by a window and watered it regularly. I waited weeks. Nothing happened.

I stuck it back in the garage.

A few weeks passed, still grieving and feeling guilty about the loss, I pulled it out again. I gave it sunlight again and watered it regularly again.

I waited again. Nothing happened again.

I put it back in the garage, defeated.

More weeks passed.

Summer came. It was time to set up the herb garden. I needed some more dirt and a larger pot. I brought out the dead pothos plant -- the pot was a much better size. 

I found a single leafling reaching up. So small, I almost have missed it. I was stunned. I re-potted the pothos plant in the smaller of the two pots, gave it water and brought it inside.

A few weeks later, it had become a full leaf.

When I feel depressed about the Anthropocene, I remind myself that if we provide plants and animals with what they need to survive -- and the patience to let them recover  -- nature, life will find a way.

But we need to act. 

We need to make changes today and become more sustainable everyday. We are running out of time.

Not everything is as hearty as a pothos plant.