Almost eight years ago, in southern California,
I bought a ficus seedling in a supermarket.
The sale of potted plants in supermarkets
was a novelty to me. This specific ficus
looked small and lonely. So was I. Six inches
high at most, its several slender green stems
already bore a few of the signature
ficus leaves people love—deep green, glossy, and fish
shaped, each one hung individually,
together creating the impression
of movement—a school of minnows or green cloud
of butterflies. But this one wasn’t there, yet.
Its size allowed it to be no more than a hint
of tree, which was fine by me, especially
since I needed to take it home
on an airplane to New York City. It rode
easily in the overhead compartment,
and made the strange journey safely.
Since then it’s lived in three or four apartments
and several different pots, each one larger
than the last. I always position it by the best
window and water it only once
a week—but thoroughly—to promote deep root
growth. By now it’s bigger than I am; its stems
have hardened into a grove of trunks. It won’t fit
in the shower anymore, much less go out the front
door, so it looks like I’m here to stay. Acquaintances
say it’s taking over—and laugh. But little
do they know I am dreaming of the day
I will walk into the forest.