Why I Water My Plant

I have a plant in my room that I bought when I first moved into my apartment. It’s a large Pothos from Ikea. Its leaves are wide and it grows in all different directions. I never owned plants before because I moved around too much, country to country, dorm to apartment. I was never in one place long enough to sustain one.

Every few days, when the soil is dry, I water my plants. I water knowing they will die, hopefully not right now, but before me, ideally. I don’t plan on keeping this plant forever. I’m not even sure it will come with me to the next apartment; I haven’t decided. But still I water my plants.

If I know my plant will die, why do I water it? If this plant is temporary, why do I take the energy to trim the leaves, buy the fertilizer, water it at all?

I water my plants not in spite of the fact that they will die, but because they will die. I enjoy the act of going to the sink, filling my metal pitcher, watching the water drip from the leaves onto the dense dry dirt. I most enjoy the way my plants perk up after a much-needed watering, almost as if they’re giving me thanks.

My plants make the air in my room fresh. They add color to the walls. They calm me down. I’m grateful for them. I don’t know how long I’ll get to water them. But I’m glad I do right now.

That is why I water my plants.