The gods of small things

"BANG!" Said the new sprout unfurling to take its place among the initiated.

The oldest, and now yellowing leaf, looked down and away. Down at the crinkle of brown which had begun as a fleck or freckle. But in the last few weeks had grown. Now its nose was completely brown and brittle. And worse the brown had spread up along its delicate edges. Old Yellowie could only assume it was going to get worse.

"And BOOM, too!" The new sprout pipped up again, but not out of meanness. The sprout simply wasn't paying attention being so full of youthful exuberance and arrogance. Newness revels in itself with abandon and even Old Yellowie could appreciate that, if only for a moment, within a moment, when forgetting itself and its plight.

Suddenly a new voice. A voice like the lowest note played on a stand-up bass. Everybody listened, because there was no option not to.

"In this pot we have only four leaves. It has always been thus. One must grow. One must go."

It was the voice of the god that hovers over the potted plant on my desk. So cruel these gods. All varieties seem to be such sticklers for the rules they probably just made up on the fly. This one couldn't be bothered to care for five sprouts. Four was this god's arbitrary limit. And so the world must say my goodbye's to Old Yellowie.

I can offer him water for his throat. A pathetic attempt to stop the unstoppable. Photosynthesis has probably shut down. He is on his last stem. Maybe I can offer a little sugar, maybe hit up the store for plant booster? Oh, but what's the use?

He never needed sugar and plant boost before. He thrived from water and air. Hung on when he and a sibling were dug up from another planter in Seattle, wrapped in moist paper towel and saran wrap, packed in my south-bound car and relocated to one of the most coveted locations on earth: Southern California. Once we had arrived he spent several months floating in a coffee mug filled with tap water growing roots. When I could afford it I bought him and his sibling a pot and some good soil. Planted him and watered him and he grew more siblings. But the magic number of 4 established itself right away. So it was from the start and has always has been, once a new sprout came, one old guy had to go.

"It is well." Says the god that hovers here just inches from my keyboard, watching his sprouts, young and old, in various stages spanning arrogance to wisdom.

"Is not!" I counter. But gods, eh, they do what they want.