Green

The green store had a pot left outside by the entrance with a sign that said “free” on it. The plant appeared to be tired and a yellowish shade of green. A woman standing outside told me that Green had been brought to the shop by his previous owners who no longer wanted him. “He’s been in our store for weeks now,” she explained. “No one wants to care for an orphan Green, even for free,” she continued. I looked down at Green and felt terrible for his deteriorating state. He looked like he desperately needed care. And although I wasn’t sure if I was to care for a faded green, I had to bring him home with me.

A damaged green—he was. So, I planted a metal straw for his falling stem to lean on and used a cotton cloth to gently tie the stem to the straw. I placed my new pet in a corner next to my bed, where the sunlight seeped through his silver veins. Afterward, I poured him a glass of water, and he drank it all up! “Poor Green,” I whispered. I then reached for his frail leaves and wiped them with lukewarm water and vinegar. “This will help you recover,” I told him. “You’re a caring human,” Green said. “And you’re a lovely green,” I replied.

The next morning, I woke up to a cold leafy sensation on my skin. When I opened my eyes, I found that Green’s tired leaf was reaching toward my arm, seeking comfort. I felt sadness in his cold leafy touch. “Where do you come from, Green?” I said, “If you don’t mind me asking.” He took a pause and answered in a nostalgic tone, “There was a beautiful garden that I had once belonged to, cared for by a kind old woman. She would talk to me, sharing stories of her life and dreams, and I would listen, feeling happy just to be in her presence. One day, my caretaker passed away, leaving behind a void in the garden. I could feel the weight of sadness in my leaves when she was gone. I missed the comforting sound of her voice and the warmth of her touch. I felt so lost. My only anchors were my fellow plant friends in the garden. But then the house was sold to a young couple. That’s when I was uprooted, just like the other Greens, and taken far away from the place I called home for so long,” he sighed.

Silence filled the space between us. I now understood why Green was so damaged and in need of care when I found him at the store. He lost not only his physical home but also his emotional home—the old woman who had nurtured him with love. Green was longing to feel part of something again. So I held him in my arms and took him to the little garden I had on my balcony. I then carefully removed him from his pot and planted him in the soil with cheerful Basils and vibrant greens. Green was afraid at first that he may not fit in or that the other plants wouldn’t understand him. But I assured him that I raised my plants to be kind and welcoming. He trusted my words and anchored his roots into the soil of my garden. As days went by, Green started opening up to his new plant friends, sharing stories of his previous life and listening to theirs. Our connection, too, deepened—as I tended his stem and leaves, and fed his soil. We shared laughter and tears, celebrations, and moments of reflection. As time went on, Green’s drooping stem stood a little taller, and his leaves had a healthier shine. But it wasn’t only Green who had been changed. I, too, had grown. Green had taught me the meaning of companionship, patience, and the beauty of nurturing another being. He also shared with me a lot of wisdom and stories from his past life and previous owner—who happened to lead a fascinating life. I was intrigued by his thoughts and felt as though we shared similar values, which only grew our connection stronger.

One day, as the sun set behind the city’s skyline, Green turned to me with a gleam in his leaves, and said, “Thank you for giving me a home, a place to belong.” I smiled, “And thank you, Green, for showing me the beauty and magic that can bloom beneath sadness and grief.” As we looked at the sky above, a sense of profound peace washed over us. Green had found a new home, and I had found a lifelong friend.