Two St. Patrick’s days ago, my mom gave me a shamrock. It thrived for months until a die-off, and I realized I’d never pulled the wrapping off the pot. The water level had slowly risen to the top of the pot.
Half the plant eventually came back to life, but it kept a difficult relationship with water. Watering seemed more likely to kill stems than encourage neighbors. Over and over again, the plant halved itself. Or I halved the plant. My mom bought a shamrock plant for herself each year and was happy if it lasted until the next St. Patrick’s Day. I wasn’t sure if mine was better off for two and a half years of death throes. A string of stems at the beginning of this summer were the last I’d seen.
But one appeared this weekend. Yesterday morning:
Taking a chance, I gave it a little drink. The afternoon:
It may be the last one, so I wanted to commemorate it.