The first thing she thinks about is watering her shefflera. She’s been gone two weeks, her bags are still sitting in the corridor, the key is still in the lock, and she rushes into the kitchen, to the cupboard below the sink, takes out the pebbly beige plastic two gallon watering can and begins to fill it with water. “Oh,” she remembers, “I have to replace the washer in the faucet, it’s leaking again.”

She runs to the living room window and pours the water into the huge pot. She thinks “this plant must be more important to me that I ever realized. My luggage isn’t even inside yet and I’ve left my front door open.”

The shefflera is nine feet tall, six fingered foot long green leaves hindered from further height  only by the ceiling, who knew how tall it could grow if there was no obstacle. Her daughter has a green thumb and grew it among all the others on a sunny south window sill, nothing out of the ordinary, no hint of its specialness, its possibilities.  It started out as a small plant from the Jewel in a 4 1/2 inch green plastic pot. But while others died and were replaced as a matter of course over the passage of years, the little shefflera survived and thrived. Survived four or five moves a year from this tiny apartment to that, always chosen for its southern exposure, carefully carted around and protected with a cone, then staves, and then it could only be transported in its own hitched trailer while it grew and grew, now four feet tall.

And finally, her daughter moved out of state to California where it is illegal to bring in “foreign” plants, but more to the point, she and her boyfriend would have had to rent a small utility trailer to lug it with them. So mother fell heir to the monstrosity. Beautiful and willowy and shiny leaved as it is, it takes up a lot of space.

Now, along with the other indispensable elements of any apartment she would live in, a dining room large enough to accommodate her turn-of-the-century dining room furniture, buffet and court cabinet included, a south-facing window is also mandatory.

It’s been almost twelve years. Other plants have come and gone with barely a glance.  Fallen to decorating jags, fads, feng shui, decluttering. If it gets brown, toss it out. Gets pot bound, toss it out. Looks spindly, one sided, toss it out. Now there is only one. The shefflera. A bag of peat once a year. Repotting is out of the question without several strong men to hand. Dust each leaf lovingly, monthly.

She’s thought about donating it a couple of times. It’s probably worth several hundred dollars if not more. A healthy nine foot shefflera. But then she grasps the inconvenience of moving it out of the condo and downstairs in the elevator and hauling it away, at least a flat bed truck or a utility trailer would be essential. And who could she donate it to who would really care for it, care for it like she does?

Love it? Love it.

Her insight amazes her. She’s always been sort of clueless about her motivations. But here she is, home from two weeks away and she’s become aware she’s been worrying about her shefflera.  Her first instinct is to check on it and give it water. Did it survive? Yes it did, she knew it would.  A third week and she would have found some mechanical method to water it. Or found a neighbor to come in. Or paid a service.

Her daughter gave it to her with hardly a second thought. Sometimes it’s a nuisance. But as it turns out, it’s important to her. She really believes in life as the highest objective. It’s alive. And it needs her. She needs to be needed.  Even by a nine foot shefflera.