In the Genizah

Because I know my time is almost done, well it’s not quite done, only seven-and-a-half decades done, I would be foolish to waste any time from the time I have left. Here in my in-home atrium of greenery are plants and a ficus tree which need my attention. They remind me how precious life is. They teach me to appreciate them, care for them, manage their lives-in-life, bury them in death. Forgive them when they are cranky, cheer for them as they grow, tend to them when they ail, cry for them when they can’t cry for themselves. 

The secrets of dying are almost as mystical as the secrets of living.

Eager to grow up when I was young, speeding to meet so many goals, measuring my life by achievements so much so that I have often missed the beauty of things which matter. Now I’m trying to catch up. Now I’m trying to slow down as I have gotten older. Now I’m taking the time to see nature's beauty before my vision is weakened and you become mere blurs, colorless outlines without insides, before my hearing diminishes so I can no longer hear your barely audible rustling, you, my feisty long-enduring ficus tree. Your green leaves working over-time shading my atrium's plants from Tucson sun's powerfully potent rays. I fear my memory failing so I am no longer able to care of you, forgetting to spread life-giving water into your roots, forgetting to fertilize you, forgetting  to prune you when you overspread your boundaries. 

I pray for a long and healthy life so I can be here for you.  

I stare at you, my atrium, my glassed-in-garden of greenery, you are the highlight of our home. You are everywhere, everywhere you make life. You are my reservoir of sunlight, you are my place of peace, you are my space of splendor, you are my holder of my life’s rhythms, my heartbeat. Should I forget openings and closings of each day and night, you remind me.

I value every moment watching you grow, you plant-children. Your differences delight me. You tiny polka-dotted plant. You calathea with zebra green-yellow-striped leaves. You zz with almost heart-shaped vv leaves, tiny petite, bright shiny green pristine leaves. You philodendron rambling, wandering as you grow greener and cover so much space. You croton with your stiff leathery leaves of vibrantly variegated colors, yellows, reds, greens, browns. You patricia with your celadon and dark-green-bordered leaves, you’ve been here for more than ten years, who knows what your life expectancy will be? You have the distinct honor of having the most longevity of any of my plants. And each summer you sprout tiny-twinkly-delicate little white flowers on your tiny green leaves. I cut away each flower to enable you to grow more vigorously and not deplete your energy. I feel sad doing this but I know it’s the right thing to do so you survive and thrive. You goldfish hanging plant, you prominently over-look all the other plants, you grow upwardly, you create nested intertwined branches of tiny delicate dark green leaves illuminated with reddish-tips of glow. You ficus tree, you lead by your tallness, your hearty green leaves reach out, spread wide. 

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I.

When you die,

when your leaves wither, shrivel, yellow,

when you’re felled on gray shiny flat rocks,

when you no longer survive,

I visualize

tearing my black-in-mourning ribbon,

pinning it to my shirt

pausing to remember who you were.

II.

Tears from me descend

like condensation’s droplets

down atrium’s glass walls

In the genizah I store you

before burial.

The secrets of dying are almost as mystical as the secrets of living.