I was finishing my ballot - thank my lucky stars and stripes I can drop this off anytime up til 7 p.m.
Next to me, the baby snored softly and suckled her pacifier. Next to her, and leaning over us both as though to cast shade under the fluorescent lights, was a big, gangly Monstera. And I wanted to take some home. So much.
I was considering asking the receptionist if I could take a cutting. Would she laugh? Would she reveal me as an entitled white lady? Why don't I just buy a Monstera?! Like I really need another plant. Am I only interested if I can get it for free?
The baby sighs, and I feel that.
I know that later I will lie awake in bed, playing and replaying the scene: myself flanked by children, gazing with longing at the broad, lace-edged leaves. Reaching out, even, to touch the satin leaves and stem. They are the deep, secretive green of the jungle. I could have stared for hours, but I had mere minutes. I touched the nodes from which I could so easily coax roots forth.
As we got ready to go, I walked slowly past the receptionist, feeling judged already, knowing I wouldn't ask. After all what if everyone did?
One last, wild thought occurred to me, and I moved toward the Monstera. I was thinking that it is silly to waste so much worry on this damn plant. But also, as my hand reached out again, I was thinking that I could quickly snap a leaf off at the node. Tuck it into my purse. Who would stop me - a mom with a numb-faced daughter and a baby-in-carseat at her hip? Anyway, there was no one in the waiting room to witness me doing it.
No one but my daughter. The baby was asleep, but her older sister - a sharp-eyed nine-year-old was already looking at me to see what I would do.
So instead, I said, "Such a pretty plant. It's called a Monstera." And we left the dentist's office.
The baby has fallen asleep, as though this whole thing mattered as much or as little as whatever babies may dream. Her little features worked through a smile, to a bubbling pout, and back to calm repose.
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