When Things Don’t Take Root

It was funny really, how much you thought that you’d need when you really didn’t; how long it would take for that to set in. 

My room was barebones by a lot of standards, or so I believed. As little as I hung out with the others, from what little glimpses I’d caught of their rooms, I’d seen many a comfy chair or a rug, and one or many fluffy blankets. Pictures, frames or not, hung from the walls or from string. My walls held no paintings, the desk had no frames. My blankets were plain and practical. I had only brought over the necessities and barely any embellishments or decorations; any I had by now, I’d made for myself during the holidays, and most of those existed in a scrapbook that now lay tightly crammed with the rest of the things I needed to take home. And yet, regardless of my efforts to be conscious of my personal articles, there was still so much stuff. Every knickknack in that room, the receipts that I had yet to throw away, the bowl of long scentless potpourri, the half finished crochet project were all undeniably mine, and mine to deal with. 

At least they were now in discernible piles, even though they looked as illegible to any newcomer at a glance. Things I’d definitely like to keep in my largest bags in the hallway, things I could afford to lose arranged in piles on my bedroom floor for donation or disposal. I’d gotten very good at tiptoeing around, and as long as my bed had space big enough for me to sleep, I could manage. Even if progression was infuriatingly slow. 

Still. Progress was progress. At least I could actually reach under my bed and do a quick sweep of it. There wasn’t much to check for, the space previously filled with baskets I’d catalog every now and then, but I’d already found an old sweater and a hairbrush I hadn’t seen all year, who knows what else I’d missed?

I had thought of that question purely in the hypothetical, a simple musing of the mind as realistic as those night terrors of people knocking on my second-storey window at 3AM after one too many spooky stories. 

Note to self, stop doing that, dammit. 

I hadn’t expected for the light of my phone to actually reflect off a cardboard box. I recognised it as soon as I lay eyes on it. I had been the one to bring it over, I knew that, but it must have fallen out of the baskets and gone unnoticed and forgotten when I shifted things around over the last few months, tucked behind one of the bed posts and the luggage that I shoved under there until only recently. 

It sat heavy in my hand. Heavy-ish in material, but lighter than it had been in sentiment. It shone bright in the light of the setting sun, the golden finish on metal scattering the light like a tiny moon. 

The vase had been a gift from a friend I had once held near and dear; someone whom I hadn’t seen in so long that their face was now a vague imprint of a memory. The article itself was hand-painted with swirling vines and glittering leaves. A symbol to our adolescent selves for continuous growth and renewal, brimming with possibility that spilled out and evaporated before it ever had the chance to take root. It had sat empty for years now, and after our abrupt and violent falling out, I didn’t feel like anything could thrive in that cold metal vessel. I thought it and I were akin to each other, doomed to have good things die and fester in our midst and care. I knew better now. Flowers had grown in and around me without me even noticing, planted there by the many others who loved me. I could see nothing else when I opened my eyes again. How could I have? 

Even so, it had pained me back then to see that gift which seemed a promise had instead turned to a mockery of me for failing to see the rot underneath; why I brought it over even then, I could not be certain of. Perhaps I wanted to rid myself of it somewhere far from home. I remembered thinking of chucking it into the river at some point, but then I was concerned that the paint might peel, and I had no intention of polluting the ecosystem like such. I was likely planning on giving it away. Yes, that was probably it, so that it might have a chance to nourish and foster again, in hands more loving and capable than mine. What could grow in something so small? A tiny cactus, maybe? A succulent? Perhaps a cut rose, if only for a little while. Ah well, it wouldn’t be my problem for much longer. 

Still, decisive as I was in ridding it, I could still sit and marvel at it a little while longer. Now that my vision wasn’t clouded by grief I could admire that it was a well made little thing. It could be worth a pretty penny at the charity shop, along with whatever else I had gathered together to give away. Then, someone would get a nice vase and someone else might be able to get a warm blanket for the winter or a hot meal. It would be better off for everyone. 

It was gone that weekend, handed over to donations. Wrapped in its little box, it seemed as inconspicuous as the rest of the old clothes and blankets and socks and such I dropped off in the largest carrier bag I owned. Save for a brief caress of the parcel before I slipped it in for transfer, there was no sentimentality, no grief. Just relief that I’d have fewer things on my hands to worry about; satisfaction in that it might finally be put to good use. 

As it turned out, sometimes letting go really was that easy.