Bamboo

 

I had a bamboo plant, 

small and healthy, 

for a few years.

When you came to my porch 

and you saw it, 

you admired it well.

I bought you a bamboo plant 

to keep in your home.

The atmosphere there nearly killed it.

In fact, 

we were sure it was dead 

when it was handed to you

as we packed your things 

from that home’s atmosphere 

into our car.

I placed your plant 

next to mine 

on the porch that Summer.

It started to have small shoots of green growth 

in the sunlight  

and with care.

The plants continued to thrive

on the kitchen windowsill that winter.

In fact, 

yours grew markedly, 

making mine look small 

and simple.

Back out on the porch for two more Summers.

Your plant was taller

and greener and, 

for no known reason, 

mine stopped producing anything new.

An area on the stalk 

lost color 

and I watched it 

struggle 

next to yours 

that grew.

And it was not lost on me 

the meaning 

and the message it told me.

That winter, 

when I went on the porch to set up

more preventatives 

to keep you

safe and well,

I stopped short when I saw 

that I had never 

brought in the bamboo plants 

when I moved every other plant 

inside.

Your plant 

and my plant

were left to die 

over the three seasons 

they could not handle.

The realization was sharp to my heart.

And it was not lost on me 

the meaning 

and the message it told me.

I would buy new plants,

I thought.

I would do that.

And I didn’t

because you were thriving 

in an unhealthy way.

And I was growing 

unwell and small.

You are on a smaller sill.

I am on a different porch, alone.

There are no bamboo.

You are not home.