The Den

Growing up, we had a room in our house that was designated as a catch-all: a place to store things forgotten that you weren’t ready to forget, a place to iron clothes, and a place to hide Christmas presents from prying eyes…

It’s also where a majority of our houseplants, in varying stages of their lives, were kept and fawned over…

There were a bunch of cacti – dry and pointy, stoic like soldiers, in old hand-thrown pots my mother had made. Some with needles that were easy to remove, others with needles that got under your skin.

There were a couple of dusty, egg-shaped moss terrariums, in various sizes – with various gnome figurines sitting, in humidity, inside. Mossy contents suspended in time with the same air from the day they were made.

There was a beautiful Geranium, that always seemed just far enough out of reach so it could remain undisturbed. Captivating in obscurity. Plump and curious. My favorite of all of the curiosities.

And then there was Coleus.
Little pots with cuttings…
Big pots with impressive plumes..
My grandmother loved Coleus – indoors and outdoors.
In gardens, and in pots – Coleus.

And so it went; so it was – growing up at 1509 Kensington Rd., with my mother and grandmother – who was a professional gardener.

This Coleus is brand new to me.

Just a week old, and hanging happily in front of my bedroom window. Purchased on a whim, without any intention of triggering these memories – but here we are, in the middle of childhood, wandering in wonder…

Yet again…

Published by Ragged

I’m here in the now, trying to experience life while living it...

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