As we crossed the living room threshold, we were greeted by a jungle. A multitude of pots and planters filled with clambering flora.
Photo: Shutterstock
Ispent most of my formative years in the car. Ta ever adoring of vast expanses of grass had relocated the family from Boro Park to Monsey shortly before my birth. While those left behind had insisted they would join us “one day” they never did. Nearly every week we would swish down the woodsy Palisades while I wrestled with motion sickness.
When we — eventually — arrived at my grandparents’ block my siblings and I would scramble out before Ma started the endless search for parking. We traipsed along the harsh gray cement turning in by the familiar white metal fence then up the red-painted concrete steps. Summoned by our over-pressing of the bell Babi would shuffle eagerly from the depths of the house to welcome us in.
As we crossed the living room threshold we were greeted by a jungle. A multitude of pots and planters filled with clambering flora occupied the territory before the sunny front windows. No neatly manicured display this; the fronds and branches were messily upheld by supportive sticks creeping expansively unrestrictedly.
Ma herself found the local nurseries irresistible; she’d often triumphantly display a new cactus succulent or an orchid. Yet these finds were placed strategically about our house not chaotically clumped together as Babi opted to.
Create a free account to keep reading.
