The Spider Plant
By Emily Drez
April 15, 2023
April 15, 2023
We hung it in the open window of our spare room, which had become my office space. The sweet, early spring air filtered out the fumes from the fresh paint on the walls. I had chosen a creamy yellow hue, much to Alex’s distaste. He preferred dull beige color, but I needed a room that was soothing to the mind, bright and happy enough to encourage my dimming creativity. So, Alex hated the color, but he loved me.
When I decided the room looked incomplete without a houseplant, Alex and I took a trip to the plant nursery. We wandered up and down the humid aisles of its greenhouse, the same website page about hard-to-kill plants pulled up on our phones. The unfamiliar smell of dirt and fertilizer whispered a promise of change, and I breathed it in. We stopped in front of the spider plants and studied them like they were pieces of museum art, our eyes sweeping over the mass of leaves crammed in plastic pots until Alex selected one from the group. This one, he had said as he held it out to me with both hands and a wide grin.
Back at home, the spider plant soaked up the morning light from the hanging basket I bought online. We stood back to admire its shining, stringy foliage. A crisp breeze graced our faces and gently rocked the plant while New Orleans clamored outside.
“Feeling creative yet?” Alex asked.
I shrugged. “I probably have to sit down and try to write something first.”
A horn honked in agreement from somewhere down the street. It had been almost a year since I had last written something. I didn’t know where to start anymore. There were a few ideas on my phone, on note cards, and in journals that otherwise were decorative, but the ideas never came together. They were aimless words with big dreams, fenced in like an overgrown ivy, and I started to believe I would suffer the same fate. My therapist attributed it to depression, but I attributed it to my post-grad funk, new home, mind-numbing job, dismantled sleep schedule, and anything in between. After one of these therapy appointments, I came home to Alex clearing out the spare room.
The spare-room-turned-office was simple. We had thrifted a desk and a matching bookshelf--both of which had plenty of space for my trinkets and paperbacks--and set them in two corners of the room. I put an old lamp on the desk, rolled out the brightly colored rug from my childhood room, and pinned some artsy photos to the walls. Alex said he didn’t care if I slept in that office, so long as I could find myself again.
“How much water does it need?” he asked, nodding at the spider plant.
I checked the sticky note the nice girl at the nursery gave to me. “Only water when the top two inches of soil are dry,” I read.
“That’s all?” he asked. He slipped behind me, warm hands on my hips, pulling me close to him.
“We should take turns watering it,” I added. “I’ll likely forget about it.”
“I was just about to suggest that.”
Alex tightened his arms around my waist, swayed us along to an invisible melody for a moment, and kissed the top of my head.
“Hey,” he said against my hair. “I’m proud of you.”
“Well, I haven’t written anything yet,” I said.
Alex scoffed and jostled me a little. “It’s a start! That’s all that matters.”
Then, he stepped forward to stick one finger in the plant’s soil. When he pulled his finger out, we inspected the dark matter that caked on his knuckle and underneath his fingernail. He looked at me and shrugged.
“Doesn’t seem like it’s thirsty yet,” he said.
I rearranged the soil in the pot to cover the hole he had made. It was soft and yielding underneath my fingers, and its musk reminded me of springtime, lush with the promise of rebirth. I stroked the plant’s satin leaves.
“Hopefully it flowers,” I mused. The girl mentioned that, with proper care, the spider plant will grow dainty, white flowers on the ends of its leaves. We call them spider plant babies, she added with a fond smile. Alex kissed me on the cheek.
“Give it some time,” he said.
My skin prickled at the caress of his words. He let his lips linger there and ran his hands down the sides of my arms before slipping out of the room. I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and gazed into the blue light. I opened a blank document, then decided I would try another time, another time, another time.
One night in August, Alex stood in the living room with dread on his face and boxes of his things at his feet. Those damned words of tragic finality formed on his lips, but I don’t remember hearing them. When he closed the door behind him for the last time, my cries ricocheted off its wood. I stood among my throw pillows on the floor, shaking as though the withdrawals were already setting in. He was moving hundreds of miles away to “find himself” while I was lost in my own space. Soul-spasming grief pinned me to my bed for days until I willed myself to push against the weight and down the hallway.
The afternoon heat was strongest in that room. It hummed in the air, heavy and sluggish. I sat at my desk with the ceiling fan spinning on high, blowing weak wisps of relief on my bare shoulders. It creaked and clinked as the pull cord hit the light fixtures. In front of me, the cursor blinked on the stark white page.
When the words on my notes app started to swim on the screen, I looked over at the spider plant. Its leaves were yellow and wilted, drooping over the sides of the pot like parched limbs. My chair tipped back and clattered to the floor when I shot up. Alex would have run to the room and checked on me; instead I stood alone and let my chair’s echo crack across the house.
My own tears stunned me. They spilled over almost accidentally on behalf of my poor plant. I reached up and plucked it from its hanger, running a finger over its stiff leaves and testing its soil, which had hardened almost completely. When I tried to remember the last time I watered it, nothing came to mind at all.
I rushed to the bathroom with the plant, set it on the floor of the shower, and ran water over it until its soil turned dark with saturation. Tears soaked my face, clawed at my chest, poured out of my nose. They choked me until I was blind and heaving. I had failed to nurture this living thing, and it was drowning under my desperate attempt to revive it.
I didn’t know how long I was on the bathroom floor. When the fog passed, I stood, then picked up the spider plant and let the excess water flow from its drain hole. Clumps of dirt raced each other toward the drain and disappeared. Droplets of water glistened on the plant’s leaves. When I found my breath, I swore the leaves were green again.
I left the spider plant in the sink to dry, then drifted to my bedroom, where I curled up on top of my comforter and let my world darken on my own accord. I woke up with sticky cheeks and a burning throat an hour later, but I found the strength to wander back into my office, flick on the lamp, and sit in front of my laptop.
Find myself. I typed the words as encouragement, and more words flowed from my fingers as freely as my tears.
When I decided the room looked incomplete without a houseplant, Alex and I took a trip to the plant nursery. We wandered up and down the humid aisles of its greenhouse, the same website page about hard-to-kill plants pulled up on our phones. The unfamiliar smell of dirt and fertilizer whispered a promise of change, and I breathed it in. We stopped in front of the spider plants and studied them like they were pieces of museum art, our eyes sweeping over the mass of leaves crammed in plastic pots until Alex selected one from the group. This one, he had said as he held it out to me with both hands and a wide grin.
Back at home, the spider plant soaked up the morning light from the hanging basket I bought online. We stood back to admire its shining, stringy foliage. A crisp breeze graced our faces and gently rocked the plant while New Orleans clamored outside.
“Feeling creative yet?” Alex asked.
I shrugged. “I probably have to sit down and try to write something first.”
A horn honked in agreement from somewhere down the street. It had been almost a year since I had last written something. I didn’t know where to start anymore. There were a few ideas on my phone, on note cards, and in journals that otherwise were decorative, but the ideas never came together. They were aimless words with big dreams, fenced in like an overgrown ivy, and I started to believe I would suffer the same fate. My therapist attributed it to depression, but I attributed it to my post-grad funk, new home, mind-numbing job, dismantled sleep schedule, and anything in between. After one of these therapy appointments, I came home to Alex clearing out the spare room.
The spare-room-turned-office was simple. We had thrifted a desk and a matching bookshelf--both of which had plenty of space for my trinkets and paperbacks--and set them in two corners of the room. I put an old lamp on the desk, rolled out the brightly colored rug from my childhood room, and pinned some artsy photos to the walls. Alex said he didn’t care if I slept in that office, so long as I could find myself again.
“How much water does it need?” he asked, nodding at the spider plant.
I checked the sticky note the nice girl at the nursery gave to me. “Only water when the top two inches of soil are dry,” I read.
“That’s all?” he asked. He slipped behind me, warm hands on my hips, pulling me close to him.
“We should take turns watering it,” I added. “I’ll likely forget about it.”
“I was just about to suggest that.”
Alex tightened his arms around my waist, swayed us along to an invisible melody for a moment, and kissed the top of my head.
“Hey,” he said against my hair. “I’m proud of you.”
“Well, I haven’t written anything yet,” I said.
Alex scoffed and jostled me a little. “It’s a start! That’s all that matters.”
Then, he stepped forward to stick one finger in the plant’s soil. When he pulled his finger out, we inspected the dark matter that caked on his knuckle and underneath his fingernail. He looked at me and shrugged.
“Doesn’t seem like it’s thirsty yet,” he said.
I rearranged the soil in the pot to cover the hole he had made. It was soft and yielding underneath my fingers, and its musk reminded me of springtime, lush with the promise of rebirth. I stroked the plant’s satin leaves.
“Hopefully it flowers,” I mused. The girl mentioned that, with proper care, the spider plant will grow dainty, white flowers on the ends of its leaves. We call them spider plant babies, she added with a fond smile. Alex kissed me on the cheek.
“Give it some time,” he said.
My skin prickled at the caress of his words. He let his lips linger there and ran his hands down the sides of my arms before slipping out of the room. I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and gazed into the blue light. I opened a blank document, then decided I would try another time, another time, another time.
One night in August, Alex stood in the living room with dread on his face and boxes of his things at his feet. Those damned words of tragic finality formed on his lips, but I don’t remember hearing them. When he closed the door behind him for the last time, my cries ricocheted off its wood. I stood among my throw pillows on the floor, shaking as though the withdrawals were already setting in. He was moving hundreds of miles away to “find himself” while I was lost in my own space. Soul-spasming grief pinned me to my bed for days until I willed myself to push against the weight and down the hallway.
The afternoon heat was strongest in that room. It hummed in the air, heavy and sluggish. I sat at my desk with the ceiling fan spinning on high, blowing weak wisps of relief on my bare shoulders. It creaked and clinked as the pull cord hit the light fixtures. In front of me, the cursor blinked on the stark white page.
When the words on my notes app started to swim on the screen, I looked over at the spider plant. Its leaves were yellow and wilted, drooping over the sides of the pot like parched limbs. My chair tipped back and clattered to the floor when I shot up. Alex would have run to the room and checked on me; instead I stood alone and let my chair’s echo crack across the house.
My own tears stunned me. They spilled over almost accidentally on behalf of my poor plant. I reached up and plucked it from its hanger, running a finger over its stiff leaves and testing its soil, which had hardened almost completely. When I tried to remember the last time I watered it, nothing came to mind at all.
I rushed to the bathroom with the plant, set it on the floor of the shower, and ran water over it until its soil turned dark with saturation. Tears soaked my face, clawed at my chest, poured out of my nose. They choked me until I was blind and heaving. I had failed to nurture this living thing, and it was drowning under my desperate attempt to revive it.
I didn’t know how long I was on the bathroom floor. When the fog passed, I stood, then picked up the spider plant and let the excess water flow from its drain hole. Clumps of dirt raced each other toward the drain and disappeared. Droplets of water glistened on the plant’s leaves. When I found my breath, I swore the leaves were green again.
I left the spider plant in the sink to dry, then drifted to my bedroom, where I curled up on top of my comforter and let my world darken on my own accord. I woke up with sticky cheeks and a burning throat an hour later, but I found the strength to wander back into my office, flick on the lamp, and sit in front of my laptop.
Find myself. I typed the words as encouragement, and more words flowed from my fingers as freely as my tears.
Emily Drez has a BA in English from Louisiana State University. She has been writing stories in beat-up notebooks since she was six years old, and she lives in Baton Rouge where she works as a writer and an editor.