how to propagate an Aloe barbadensis miller in mid-winter.
Prepare a pot with soil and plenty of drainage. Place the slightly anemic cutting in a well-lit window like Alma told you to that last day in October when you both got drunk on her brother’s peach brandy and she told you she wasn’t long for this world.
Dampen the soil each morning after you brush your teeth, remembering the glare her mother gave you when she found you both on the back porch then, giggling into her crystal snifters while Alma delicately removed the healthy leaf now trying to find life away from its larger self. Try to recall if you said something to Alma’s mother, or if the image of the broken brandy glass on the ground is something you only wish is real.
Fight the daily urge to check for roots, and cry aloud when the cutting finally takes a few weeks into November. Call Alma and try not to be disappointed when her mother answers, says her daughter will be back to the room later. When she hangs up on you, consider asking next time about that glass, and if she ever found all the pieces that had fallen to the lawn below.
Water the now-plant sparingly. They like to be thirsty, Alma tells you over the phone one morning when she’s feeling good and her mother’s in the cafeteria getting day-old cinnamon rolls and coffee. Leave it be. Believe her because she’s usually right about this stuff, like that time in Mr. Sontina’s seventh-grade English class when you lost your school copy of A Wrinkle in Time ahead of your book report presentation and she assured you it’d turn up, helped you search the halls until you found it. Ignore the way her voice wavers over the line, and don’t ask if she’s getting enough water herself. Enough sun. Say you’ll try to get out of work early and come visit. Ask how long her mother’s hanging around there, but don’t make it obvious you want to avoid her. Laugh when she says she’s worried the woman will never leave––she’s got one of her grandmother’s quilts and some pillows set up on the chairs by the Vitals monitor and it’s beginning to feel like a war encampment there. Assure her the battle can’t end until you’ve fought in it. You’ll bring the plant, a token of peace, so she can praise its continuing life.
Lose track of time. Get caught up in work. Lose power for a week when the blizzard hits in February and wrap the plant in towels and blankets to keep it warm. Keep calling Alma and keep making plans and, more and more, keep hearing her mother answer the phone, say Alma’s not doing well and maybe you should wait to see her. Next week should be better.
All the while, watch your plant. Soon you’ll have to start picking off dead leaves. Panic when you find one shriveled against the spikey crown in your bathroom window. Pray it’ll heal itself though you’re pretty sure prayer wasn’t designed for plants. Though she hates to video-chat now, Facetime Alma to coach you through the necessary amputation. Try to take heart when she reassures you that you haven’t failed it yet, they like to be dramatic. Hang up quickly before you notice the sallowness of your friend’s face on the phone screen. Hear Alma yell at her mother as the call disconnects. Promise you’ll call again soon even though no one’s listening.
Name it. Christen it with water from the tap. Tell Alma immediately although it’s 10 PM and you’re a little bit tipsy. Tell her you’ve named it Alma like her. Feel pleased when you hear her smile on the other end, when she says she’s not dead yet but she’s got to go, she had a long day, and she’s eager to meet her namesake in person.
Play it music from Roo Panes and Gregory Alan Isakov, songs that speak of growth and rebirth that might also speak to plants. Get excited when plant-Alma sprouts a pup. Be angry when your-Alma’s mother answers the phone and this time doesn’t speak right away. Take momentary pleasure in the sound of her heavy breathing in the receiver, but know immediately what that breathing means has happened. Hang up before she can cry, before she hears you cry, before you have time to imagine in the static of the hospital phone the folded quilt and stacked pillows and black monitor like a call for ceasefire looming in the background. Look at your friend’s proxy sitting on your windowsill, poking up like bad hair from her suitable pot. In a moment of confused but certain judgement, pick her up and let her drop onto the bathroom tiles. With your feet in the soil, imagine what it’s like to put down roots. Now look at the leaves broken amidst pottery. Feel what it’s like to be uprooted. Wonder what living-Alma would advise next. How long it will take to bring her back.
Pick up one of the broken leaves. Know you have brought it this far.
Salvage what dirt you can and start again.
