The Life Cycle of a Peace Lily Plant

Olivia Baradaran / V Mag at UVA

We bought that plant in the last few weeks of winter. It was raining that day, if I’m remembering correctly. You told me you liked the rain, but not winter rain. It was too cold and depressing and often appeared on days that promised snow, which would turn winter hopes into a flurry of disappointment. Our friendship was still in its early days when we took that trip to Lidl together. It wasn’t the closest grocery store to your apartment, but I insisted that the lower prices would be worth the delayed dinner plans. 

You put up the hood of your jacket to avoid the almost-freezing rain, while I shivered through the pain. You noticed the way the raindrops trickled off my crossed arms and insisted I go inside first. While waiting for you to grab the cart, I stared longingly at the plant section near the entrance. A small potted plant caught my eye. Drawn to it, I reached to caress its leaves within my hand. It was a deep green color, with medium length stems that led to longer leaves. I got lost in beauty.

Your hello startled my hand away from the leaf, the rash movement causing me to accidentally tear a portion of it off. I gave you a light shove and pouted as I held the piece up to your face. After it caught your eye, I enclosed it in the palm of my hand, as if to pay respect to the plant. You then opened my palm, almost lovingly, and placed the fragment back with its counterparts. You gently buried it in the soil, which set it on a path to become a new leaf on a new stem of the same plant it had been torn from. 

You grabbed the plant out of its holder and took its plastic pot inside your hands. I watched as you pulled the small white tab out of the soil, identifying it as a peace lily plant. We discovered that white lilies would bloom among the leaves in springtime. You then declared that the plant was ours, it had to be. We decided to alternate caretaking responsibilities with each hangout, which you claimed gave us an excuse to see each other more often. From that moment on, our friendship was bound by the shared ownership of this plant, our peace lily.

A few weeks later, your hand brushed up against mine and I took it. The lily buds of our plant popped up around the same time. I smiled when I noticed that. You looked at me in panic, then with curiosity, and then with love. We played it off at first, but slowly took the idea of us being together more seriously. The second time we held hands, your eyes had that same curiosity in them, but then it was quickly replaced with love. The third time, just love. 

It was now early spring. We finally admitted that our feelings were more than platonic, and shared a quick kiss to celebrate. You sent me pictures of the lily flowers that seemed to have bloomed overnight. You were the first woman that I had ever been with. Not that I was closeted or anything, but I just happened to have dated only men before you. I liked how you didn’t mind my lack of experience. It helped me feel less insecure about the women you’d dated before me. You were one of those girls that sapphics would dream about. Dyed hair, more piercings then I could count, and tattoos that you’d gotten just for the hell of it. I was one of those people that could pass as straight. Blonde hair, a couple piercings, and not a speck of ink on my body. We were opposites, but we liked that about each other. 

Summer came around, and we were going steady. We both finished our last semester of college and spent the summer visiting each other's family homes. On each drive, our plant sat in one of the back seats. We often buckled it up for safe measure. Your parents were more welcoming than I could have imagined. I bonded with them over coffee from your dad’s prized espresso machine and became a celebrated member of family game night. Your little sister always wanted to braid my hair, and I’d always let her. I’d undo the braids the next morning, leaving my hair in the same indented curls each time I went to the kitchen for breakfast. I didn’t know that families could be so accepting, and I wished the same acceptance lived in my house. 

I always felt guilty when I instinctively dropped your hand as soon as I heard my parents’ footsteps in the hallway. They were normally just getting something from their room, but fear always struck me. Each time, you caressed my cheek and wiped my tears away with your thumb. I closed my eyes in shame as you reminded me that it wasn’t my fault. Luckily, my parents wouldn’t dream of their precious daughter falling in love with a woman, so they gladly had you come over as my beloved best friend. My older brother could tell we were a thing, but promised to keep it a secret. My younger brother, on the other hand, was too self-absorbed to even notice our occasionally too-flirty banter. I wanted to visit your home more often, but you insisted we made the trips fair. You thought I would be resentful if I was the one always making the three-hour drive, but I don’t think you realized how much your family meant to me. 

In the later days of summer, we decided to move in together. We basically spent the majority of our time with each other anyways, so why not in a shared space? Around the same time, we had to buy a new pot for our plant, as its leaves suddenly multiplied. You thought it would be a cute idea to decorate it with our handprints, so we did. 

Our plant was the first object to go into our apartment. I held it carefully in my hands as yours unlocked the door. We moved into a city almost perfectly between our hometowns. I would have preferred a shorter drive to your family, but you insisted we make an effort to stay close to mine. Your parents were thrilled to see you move in with your loving girlfriend, and mine were happy to see me move in with a good friend.

Soon, fall came around and we settled in nicely to our new apartment. Our plant had stopped growing leaves as a result of the changing season, but it was still as healthy as ever. Our apartment was small, but we made it work, and our contrasting styles somehow complimented each other nicely. You preferred darker colors and natural light, while I found comfort in pastels and table lamps. I preferred my photos neatly framed on countertops, while you pasted polaroids to the wall. Our home was full of compromise.

Your new job as a lab assistant was going well, and I was adjusting to my first semester of grad school. Throughout our time living together, I learned all your little habits. Like the way you were super loud while getting ready in the morning, no matter how much you thought your occasional tiptoes would help. With each muffled shit! when something fell, I would smile to myself as I pretended to sleep. I also noticed that whenever you had a particularly bad day at work, you’d always take me out to our favorite ice cream spot. You’d act as if it was for my benefit, but I knew you liked going there to vent. I’d joke about your selection of mint chocolate chip, and I never heard the end of it for liking cotton candy. Eventually our laughter would settle into serious conversation as you found the words to open up.

Once we got a hold of our routine, you introduced me to your work friends and I introduced you to a few of my classmates. The new people in our lives meshed together nicely to form a decent-sized friend group. Soon our weekend hangouts became more and more regular. I noticed you were particularly close with one of your coworkers, Anastasia. You called her “Ana” for short. You both had a lot in common.

Before we knew it, it was the end of October. The leaves of our peace lily plant began to droop, but we figured it was from the dropping temperature. Our friend group was planning on dressing up as DC Comics characters at a mutual friend’s Halloween party. We went as Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, because who else would a lesbian couple go as? 

You seemed to fit into the role of Ivy perfectly. For you, it wasn’t a big deal to dye your hair red for the sake of a Halloween costume. You’d done it over much less. I didn’t seem to capture the energy of Harley as well, but you said that as long as we stuck together people would get it. 

Little did I know, Anastasia went as Harley too. She obviously had no problem dying her hair for the occasion, which made my cheap spray dye fade as she strutted into the room. I let go of your hand as you walked over to compliment her costume. You looked around for me, but I let myself get lost in the crowd. A few minutes later, we eventually locked eyes and I nodded my head to let you know I was okay. 

Next thing I knew, I was standing by myself all night watching you gesture over to me each time someone assumed your couple’s costume was with Ana. To make matters worse, some drunk dude dressed as the Joker kept hitting on me all night. I replied that I was taken, regrettably revealing it was by a woman, which prompted him to ask if we’d have a threesome with him. I faked an excuse to leave and found you within the crowd, dancing with Anastasia. I grabbed your hand and squeezed it. I must have had this look in my eyes that made you know something was wrong. Without hesitation, you gathered our things and took us home. 

As winter approached, you were home less and less. You and Ana were given a huge assignment at work, which seemed to be taking all your time. When I checked on the plant, I noticed the tips of the leaves beginning to brown. I tried to let you know, but your calls always went to voicemail. Eventually, I had the greeting memorized. Hey, this is Cali. I’m probably busy right now, or just ignoring you. I might call you back when I have the chance. I started to notice every little pause and background noise of the seven-second message.

I started sleeping over at my friend’s house most nights, just to have someone keep me company. For some reason, you never asked where I was, and it made me wonder if you had even made it home yourself. I guess you were sleeping at hers. A couple days later, I got a text from you. You finally had time to see me, but I didn’t realize it would be the last time.

It’s now well into winter. My apartment is half-empty. The plant’s leaves are brown and dead and shriveled. Some portions of it are yellow, from the days I tried over-watering as if I could change actions of the past. I stare at it from my bed, wanting to take each dry leaf and crumble it in my hand, while also wanting to cradle them at the same time. I consider all the plant's possible fates– I could replace it, compost it, salvage what’s left.

Instead, I throw it away.