I grew up in an older house with big windows and a lot of sunlight. But the paint in our kitchen peeled in the crease between wall and ceiling.  My mother grew anxious thinking the wall would peel down and underneath would be our unflattering reality.  So, she brought home a beautiful ivy plant and hung it up, draping the branch along the crease of wall and ceiling, hiding the flaws.

By the time I was a month old, Ivy turned ten and was 20 times my height.  She stretched around the kitchen in a full loop meeting back at the pot.  My siblings and I were all so excited to watch her grow around another time. But that year my mother, Ivy’s main caretaker, left. The branches soon decayed but it left its roots inside of us.  We left the house with the paint peeled kitchens — having no reason to stay — everything beautiful inside had passed away.

My two sisters recently visited a tattoo parlor.  The artist injected green branches behind their earlobes. Four leaves, one for each sibling.  “It’s who we are,” they explained, “never leaving what we love behind”.

My sister caught me doodling branches on looseleaf. “Baby girl,” she said. “I gotta go but remember, I’ll always be in that leaf.” She picked up the paper, kissing it.

The plant matures in you so you always know where you came from and you can always find your way back to the flower pot.