By Eliza Thomas

When my daughter was nine, I bought a tiny Norfolk Pine in a tiny plastic pot. It was my only houseplant. I’m not the kind of person who hangs lush ferns in the windows and grows lemon trees in the corners of the living room, though I wish I were. I wish I knew how to sprout an avocado pit and keep it alive forever; I wish I knew about orchids. But I do know myself. I forget to water my houseplants and they dry out, and then they turn brown, and then they die, which is depressing. I gave up long ago trying to become a better plant person. Still, it was winter and cold and dark, and I wanted something that was alive, however briefly. I didn’t want a hacked down tree. We put our Norfolk Pine on a table and adorned it with tinsel and outsized Christmas ornaments and called it done.

To my astonishment the tiny tree survived. Stubborn, it lasted through the cold, dark winter and through the extended periods of drought I imposed upon it. It even survived being knocked over numerous times by child and dog, its soil strewn across the floor, its pitiful roots exposed. I could, and should, have celebrated its persistence, but instead the tree reminded me precisely how terrible I was with houseplants. It made me feel guilty just looking at it. You are a Bad Person, it seemed to tell me, when I’d finally remember to water it after weeks and weeks of neglect. I tried to find another home for my tree, offering it to various neighbors, but nobody wanted it. Maybe my tree realized what was what. Maybe it said to itself: Well then. I’ll just keep very still and try not to grow very much.

But it did grow, despite itself, despite me, despite everything. At some point it outgrew its tiny pot and I transferred it to a larger plastic bucket, although I do not recall doing so. It’s now a leggy three-and-a-half feet tall, with long uneven branches. People who know about houseplants have informed me that a Norfolk Pine isn’t a true pine, but I’m not sure what that means or what difference it makes. I do understand that Norfolk Pines don’t like too much water and don’t want too much direct sunlight. In point of fact: my tree has survived. My neighbor, a retired landscape gardener, called it “scrawny” and small for its age, but otherwise healthy.

Eighteen years have passed since I brought it home. Almost two decades gone poof, and my daughter has moved away, and two old dogs have broken my heart, but my tree refuses to leave. The landscape gardener neighbor suggested that it would benefit from a bigger bucket, so this past summer I bought a gigantic pot, along with the most expensive bag of potting soil available. I plopped the tree into its roomy new home, patted the dirt in place, and gave it some water, but not too much. There you go, I told it. It takes up the whole table, but I don’t mind.

Because despite myself, despite everything, I now know that I love my tree. After years of fretting and feeling guilty, I’m glad that I couldn’t give it away. I’m glad it didn’t die. These are not the best of times, and I’m glad that my tree seems unaware of that fact. I appreciate how it just keeps to itself and keeps on growing, albeit imperceptibly. Love has grown imperceptibly as well; my affection for this tree has crept up on me. Next summer I will lug it, my one and only successful houseplant, out to the back porch. I’ll sit next to it with a cup of coffee as it basks in the morning sunlight. I’ll bring it back inside before the first chill of fall, and when it outgrows its current pot I’ll find a bigger one. Norfolk Pines, I’ve read with some consternation, may get to be twenty feet tall indoors. I’ll deal with that somehow. I look forward to such a fine problem.

But for now, we are set. Look at you now! I say when I walk by its table. My lovely tree! Ah, it says, stretching its lopsided limbs with pleasure, filling in the empty spaces with its perfect, stubborn life.

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ELIZA THOMAS is a piano teacher and accompanist. In a former life, she imagined herself a beginning writer. That was ages ago however, and she is happy to be working again on essays and stories. She lives in Vermont with two dogs and one houseplant.