"something obsolete"

When it arrived, a year ago, it was huge. She gave two others plants, one as an afterthought, though just as remarkably thoughtful and well chosen for her, the other to our mutual friend whose home was full of fake plants. It was clear she went there to get something for me. My tree towered over everyone else's gifts, and when she led me to it, biting back a giggle, I remember being surprised at how big it was. Nearly three feet tall, it was wrapped in heavy brown paper, which I took off in front of her, feeling the burden of her nervousness; how best to commemorate the time we shared?

At the time, as I removed the paper, as I realized how perfect a gift it was for me, the bright green bristles of the conifer, a norfolk pine, it's leaves soft and supple against my skin. I have always loved conifers, that they survive the harshest beatings of winter, and still stay wooly and warm against the heat of summer, without shedding too much of their bulk, I see a coniferous tree and it always brings a smile to me. I read once, "The world's tallest, largest, thickest and oldest living things are all conifers."

She had been sleeping next to me in my bed, having abandoned her room to our new roommate, she was unwilling to live here another year, and what I saw in that tree, more than the gracious regard for my love of conifers was the ever present sting of her leaving me. To have a physical reminder to connect to her leaving, a three foot albatross, an anchor to remind me constantly of her absence, that was what I saw when the paper fell away from those thin spindly branches, reaching out to the sides as if trying to touch us, the tops of them a round cluster of new growth, a burst of fireworks, a head of unruly hair.

She didn't understand my disappointment. I think only now, that the year comes to a close, that the distance has kept us apart, that I haven't been able to see her, that she hasn't been able to see me, maybe now she understands the disappointment that cored me that day.

Like anyone who spent even a small bit of time with her, I was in love with her, fascinated by the lilt in her voice, the way she would hum through the house, her thorough way of doing everything, the dense forests of her stories, the laughter and spontaneity she exuded, the quiet solitude she savored, the curls of her hair, everything I knew about her I adored.

The day I watched her pack her car outside my window, tempted to depart with her, to abandon all of my life and sit next to her on the drive and be swallowed up in her car with all her stuff up to the ceiling, and knowing I couldn't, it was embarrassing later, how much I loved her, but that day I just didn't want to lose the one person I never had to explain myself to, and even when I clarified myself out of habit, she knew me already, because she knew herself and we were so similar.

The conifer didn't fit in my room. I spent the day she left rearranging and then sitting with it, and then trying another spot, and another until I realized with some dismay that it didn't belong in there. I breathed a sigh of relief. To not wake up every morning with that reminder of her in my view, perhaps it was better. So I found an unoccupied corner in the apartment, near a window and I began to take on the burden of caring for the plant that was a constant reminder of her and her absence.

I gave it ornaments for Christmas. I found these tiny adorable ceramic birds she would have loved, they were too heavy for the delicate branches and made them sink from the weight, and tiny silver balls, and it was our Christmas tree. And then the winter passed, and it resumed its spot near the window. Caring for the tree was harder than I imagined, as I had experienced before, the seemingly hearty conifer species is actually a fickle houseplant, probably preferring to be out-of-doors and able to feel the air through its spiraling bristles, to feel the weak warmth of the winter sun on its branches, to have the humidity of fog and clouds and snow to soak up moisture through its green leaves.

It floundered for a while under my care, under what I suppose I should call negligence, for it required a daily spray of water on its branches, and a frequent filling of water in the rock bed underfoot. I spend too much time away from home, and too many mornings dashing late to work and too many nights crawling with exhaustion into bed to care for such a needy plant. My other houseplants are heartier and can stand to be dry for some time, but not this one.

Slowly, one by one, each stalk lost the brilliant green glow that brought reluctant smiles to my face and it became a thing of concern for me, I spent more time spraying it, diligently making time for it each morning, pouring water into the tray of rocks underneath it, stroking the arms flat against my palms, sometimes pricked by the stiffening needles, which left my skin itchy from the toxins conifers deliver from its resin.

It wasn't until almost summer though that it seemed evident, that the supple needles began to stiffen, the branches that had been reaching out atrophied, shrinking from long lean arms into mounded humps, just as the love between us shriveled, where I felt neglected and disowned, forgotten for others, and thirsty for her.

It didn't help that it sat in the vicinity of the cold dead thing that occupies my apartment, that overwhelming stench of dying and decomposition, her blank face, those dead glazed eyes, which drives me into hiding every time I realize that the light is on, that my open door acts as an invitation for the addled and heavy droning conversations in which she would desperately like me to approve of all that she does and I cannot, because I cannot lie, so I hide behind my closed door and hope that she will ignore me; I left the plant she gave me amidst that, and it is no surprise to me that the life drained out of it, just as mine continues to drain out of me.

To have failed at keeping that plant alive is not truly a failure. It has been a year and finally I gave up that it will return from its dried out state, brought it to the alley and hoped someone who feels a great love for plants might give it a home, or that it will help the garbage in the dump breakdown better, be put to some use rather than wasting away in my apartment, which pains me so.

There are still reminders of her in my space, the magazines that are timeless, the poetry book I need to send her, the cassette she sent me that I still haven't listened to because I'm afraid it will re-ignite that steady flame she fostered in me, which I let die out and find the glumness of my days only a fair price to pay in exchange for the joyful gladness her presence gave me.

Maybe when I have nothing left to remember her by, maybe then I can open that time capsule from her and hear the words she recorded for me and know that love again.