I just finished watering my barrel cactus, which I bought in the airport the year we moved into this house--1994.  It's tripled in height and doesn't seem to mind being in the same pot after all this time.  And I'm worried about the jade plant, which grew from a small sprig off a dear friend's huge potful--a gift on Pat's 40th birthday, 30 years and three states ago.  My (now large) jade plant seems to be dying; leaves are falling off and branches look puny.  So I've harvested some sprigs and they are rooting in a glass of water, awaiting potting when I get around to it.  It seems as though I should try to carry on this sweet tradition.

But then I look around.  The house is full of flowers and plants, and I had to leave some at the museum for lack of space.  How many peace lilies can a person care for?  The rubber plant on the front stoop looks awful (it was a gift ten years ago and has been through a lot!) and I'm going to cut it down and possibly not replace it.  Every winter Pat would bring a dolly home from work and we'd muscle the heavy pot into the front hallway lest it freeze.  I can't manage that by myself.  And how much responsibility do I have for these plants, anyway?  They are not  children, they're plants.  In theory I'm the dominant species (except for the insects; the mosquitoes and fire ants will survive us all).  The big kalanchoe is just about finished flowering, and I can put that in our little greenhouse or on the deck where it should do just fine with little care.  The bromeliad is happy in the bathroom for now.  I threw out a small cyclamen this morning but felt guilty about it.  I don't think I could toss them all out, anyway.

There should be a form of absoution for plant guilt.