Esther’s Cyclamen

My father married his second wife while I was in my mid-twenties. Esther, now my stepmother, became a dear friend.

One day when I visited her, she had a lovely pot of cyclamen on the coffee table. I admired it so much that she decided to share with me.

To my amazement she took out a knife and cut the bulb giving me one half.

Unfortunately, neither half survived, not hers nor mine. I always felt terrible about this. Of course, it was not my wish to split the bulb. Nonetheless, I felt guilty as if I had myself killed her beloved plant. I brought her another cyclamen later but nothing could extinguish my feeling of responsibility.

Today, decades later, I live around the corner from the Ritz Carlton Hotel. Despite the lockdown and the pandemic, the hotel maintains plantings outside above the pavement.

Recently I walked by as I do with my dog. I discovered someone had uprooted a cyclamen from among the plantings and tossed it on the sidewalk. I was horrified by this callousness.

I immediately thought of dear Esther and I picked it up and took it home.

I potted the bedraggled posy, hoping it would thrive.

For the first several days, it drooped and lost its blooms.

I surrendered to a greater wisdom, thinking there was no hope for the future of the plant I had now called Esther.

But recently I walked by plant and saw two tiny buds struggling to rise above the surface. I now have a flourishing cyclamen plant, in a deep rosy hue.

I know Esther with me. I am comforted