Inside my ribcage is a heart-leaf philodendron. She vines around each organ, springing forth new growth. Fresh green leaves by the day. She’s a stubborn bitch of a houseplant.
I don’t water her. She drinks up all the whiskey from my blood. She lays into me about hydration, about exercise. She says she can feel the state of my lungs. A sorry pair. And don’t even get her started on my liver. It’s a wonder I’ve made it to 50. She frets over what my bones are doing and how they are or are not colliding into each other. Something about deteriorating soft tissue.
I always wonder how many other houseplants have such concerns. Once she said, logically: what else was she supposed to worry about—my sternum her root ball, my spine her trellis. Right, I said And what about food and sunlight? I asked. I didn’t and don’t know the rules of houseplants when they’re locked inside a body. What about food and sunlight? She shrugged. A girl’s got to eat, I said. She expects me to feed her with dirt. Just: put your toes in it, she insists. So my toenails are always filthy. And: lounge out for a few more minutes in that blazing California sunlight. She doesn’t care about skin cancer, doesn’t think that it’ll be the thing to bring me down. At this rate, she said once, your heart will give out before your skin does. Thanks, I said. You’re welcome, she said. Shall I play a tiny violin for you? She asked. Fuck off, I said.
And now she has fucked off. Just silence. I listen for her green plant voice with my bones and nothing. I can still feel her there. Just yesterday, a new leaf around my left shin. Hello, Heart-Leaf, I say aloud. Nothing.
The truth is that that this is not a coincidence. This is about a man. Isn’t it always. I start seeing someone and Heart-Leaf punishes me. The man, I know, isn’t as nice as the man she imagined for me. But they never are. He said, off the bat that he was concerned about my weight. I mean health. I mean: I can’t remember. He said the word Ozempic. Heart-Leaf said, It’s different when I say it. Or she said: I don’t say that. And she said, You don’t need that. And she said, Fuck that guy. She didn’t mean fuck that guy, she meant fuck that guy. But I did. And now here we are.
The man is a rock climber. Heart-Leaf has told me to stop dating goddamn rock climbers but I can’t seem to not date goddamn rock climbers. Rock Climber believes in fitness and the psychological power of music and that’s about it. He doesn’t read the news. Or books. In the beginning, Heart-Leaf warned me. She said, He’s not your intellectual equal. I said, I don’t need to date a dictionary. She snorted.
Rock Climber has never taken me on a date, but once he made me bison tacos and gave me a foot massage. Another time, he took me rock climbing to his favorite crag. Everything was too hard for me to climb, but he let me belay him up something and said it was special for me to be there watching. This sounds like asshole behavior, but it’s really just dirtbag behavior. There’s a difference. It’s subtle but it’s there. I know what Heart-Leaf would say. She’d say, Fuck that guy. And I’d say, Check. And then she’d do a figurative eye roll at me.
But she doesn’t. She’s just silent. And the silence makes my teeth hurt.
Rock Climber and I date for six months. It’s tumultuous. He wants me to be a rock climber and then he’s mad when I’m not a good rock climber. He wants me to hike peaks with him but I’m 50 and I’ve got a bum knee and I can’t hike peaks with him. He wants me to be better at pickleball, but I’m already pretty good at pickleball and I don’t care to get better.
Then Rock Climber breaks up with me for a highliner named Mikaela. Mikaela is more his type, he says. He says, she’s been highlining all over the world, and isn’t that amazing. It is amazing, I say. He says they have more in common. Which also translates to she’s thin. He says he’d like to stay friends. I say, I have enough friends thank you. When he leaves, I curl into the couch and just stare at the couch cushion, pulling at stray fuzz. Finally, Heart-Leaf says, Sorry.
Don’t you mean to say, I told you so, I say. She’s quiet but it’s not the mean kind. Men are dickbags, she says finally. No more rock climbers, I say. I say, Why did you leave me? I say, I needed you. I say, Fuck you, Heart-Leaf.
I feel her vines wrap around the length of my skeleton. Her green pliant heart-leaves. This living, breathing body inside mine. I want to say I’m afraid of being alone forever because that’s what women my age are always saying. But here’s another truth: I’m not because I’m not. Heart-Leaf is here, always here, always unfurling.
