On Befriending Plant Life

A few weeks ago, while waiting on the number 27 bus with the boyfriend (J), I befriended a leaf called Mortimer. I suspect that his name was not always Mortimer, but I called him that and he did not protest. Mortimer is an autumn leaf, brown and crisp, one foot step away from being many Mortimers. Had I not saved him, he'd for sure have returned to the earth "from whence he came." It happened that the boyfriend and I were headed to a garden center to check out some herbs and flowers and such. Mortimer was along for the ride, but not without precaution. He insisted on being set between the pages of my used copy of Lolita -- oh literary leaf!

30 minutes later, Mortimer, the boyfriend, and I safely arrived at the garden center. Mortimer emerged from the pages intact and the 3 of us browsed the various greenery, with Mortimer perched between my thumb and index finger. We sniffed mint and basil and rosemary; admired the mini evergreens (charlie brown Christmas trees, I call them); and saw the biggest terracotta pot I've ever seen. Mortimer loved it at first, getting to see all his long lost cousins. And such variety, noted. I reminded him that there is no need to feel ugly when nothing looks the same. We came to the rose bushes on which not one flower lived, not even a rosebud and Mortimer thought, perhaps realizing for the first time, "I will dies soon like them." And he will. I could say nothing to change this. I returned Mortimer to the pages (once leaves like him and now reincarnated with ink and letters), our trip was winding down. The boyfriend bought some potting soil and after a brief meal and Guinness at a nearby tavern, we returned home.

Mortimer sits on my nightstand next to the stack of books that is constant flux (I can't read just one book at a time). I'm never home to give him the attention he needs. He's alive, pensive and small. But I do not think he is lonely, the books are there for his company and comfort. They died, too, just as he will. Their fate will not be his. But, rarely is the end the end. A cherry seed named Randal told me that.