Still Reaching

When my sister H. was in her second year of college, she moved from the dorms into a (not-a-sorority) house on campus. The house had a damp, dark basement with one little window up at ground level. When she came home the next summer, she stored a number of things in the basement, including a tiny seedling she'd given up on.

In September, when she returned to school, she found that the plant had sent a shoot up - and not just up, but eight feet up! That little seedling had stretched all the way up to the window, looking for light. I suppose for all those weeks of darkness, it thought it was still underground. When the shoot reached the window, it grew leaves. What a strange sight that was, the slimmest of stems, eight feet tall and unbending, topped by three, understated leaves.

My sister took the plant under her wing - rescued it, the way she used to rescue toads from the window well. The next summer, I helped her move her things back home, and I got to spend the entire six-hour drive with the plant on my lap (over my shoulder, around the bucket seats. "Don't bend it!")

I understand how she felt. It's impossible not to feel protective toward something so hopeful.