A Blossoming Friendship

Our communication fell off.

I don’t like to think it was my fault. I tried getting in touch over and over but none of my efforts were returned. Emails, phone calls, text messages- everything unanswered.

The fact that Carl, my first and oldest friend, ignored me hurt. We stayed close through so much mutual trauma. Divorces, deaths, and financial calamities were all softened through our companionship. We always talked about how we could depend on one another. I needed that bond the older I got and the more loved ones I lost. Retirement’s isolation and freedom became its ultimate cruelty.

Though life went on, I couldn’t help thinking about Carl. I hadn’t exactly given up, but my attempts to reach him grew infrequent the longer I was ignored. Bitterness soon helped justify my waning interest in reconnection.

It was a sunny Tuesday morning and Carl was the furthest thing from my mind until receiving that delivery.

The doorbell rang right after I ritually French pressed my coffee and made hard-boiled eggs.

A delivery truck was visible from my kitchen window. Its engine hummed as it sat in the middle of the street. A steady stream of cars piled behind. I assumed it was just some stuff I ordered days before and had already forgotten about. Packages like that reminded me of Christmas or a birthday.

I opened the door, greeted the delivery man, and saw the giant box balanced on his hand truck. I signed for it and practically gave myself a heart attack dragging it inside.

Once in my foyer, my eyes adjusted to the tiny print on the packing label.

What I’d waited for arrived.

My life line.

Carl.

A stitch nagged my side. That always happened when I got too excited before my morning crap. I tugged the box toward the bathroom to be sure it wouldn’t run away or be misplaced. After doing my business and splashing some cold water on my face, I took a breath. Possibilities raced through my mind.

I reminded myself that disappointment is the byproduct of anticipation blueballing you.

Don’t expect too much.

One of my good steak knives finally penetrated the packing tape. Whatever was in there was well protected.

Inside, underneath a tremendous pile of foam peanuts, and bound tight in stretch wrap was a humongous pot packed with red soil. I took a whiff and picked up copper. It appeared as if I had a bowl of powdered rust chips. Taped to the side was a packet of white seeds and a folded note that said, “Plant and wait. Need lots of water and light.”

I hauled the pot to the windowsill that let in the most sunlight and set it down. The process was simplified without the bulky box.

Botany was far from my wheelhouse so I just did my best. After planting the seeds, I poured in a shit ton of water, waited, and hoped I didn’t fuck anything up.

I have no idea how long I spent sitting in front of that window waiting. It must have been many days and nights. I entered a trance, only getting up for occasional bathroom and food breaks. I became a takeout fiend, living off cold lo mein and pizza.

All the while, I cared for it better than any living thing ever entrusted to me before.

Much like my relationship with Carl, despite all my effort, nothing fruitful grew. Not even so much as an encouraging little sprout sprung.

I continued anyway.

At the height of one especially bright and warm day, the pot shook as if in an earthquake.

A thick branch shot out from deep in the soil. It extended to my ceiling and little wooden sticks at the end morphed into fingers. My eyes widened in disbelief as more branches erupted from the soil, blossoming the most vibrant purple, pink, and blue hydrangea flowers I’d ever seen.

The fingers scraping my ceiling curled back over and dipped into the pot, burrowing deep within the soil.

The hand pulled with all its might until Carl’s stained red head popped out.

He smiled.

I smiled back, grateful to finally see my old friend again.