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Manifold Northeast Life & Trust

Manifold Northeast Life & Trust Manifold Northeast Life & Trust Cat Powell Photo of cubicles by Tim Patterson; forest by Nicholas A. Tonelli F IC T IO N I wake early and water the plants. I have a lot of plants, and it takes the better part of an hour to see to them. Most are rescues that I find abandoned F A L L 2 019 • THE MIS SOURI RE V IE W 27 on suburban sidewalks, put out with the trash because they’re ugly or dying or refusing to flower. My oldest is a Ficus benjamina I’ve had for forty-v fi e years, retrieved from the garbage room of my freshman dorm with only three dark and glossy leaves to his name. Like me, he’s thick - ened with age, and unlike me, he’s grown so that his crown now brushes the dining room ceiling. I mist the broad-leafed bird-of-paradise that’s only ever flowered once; the purple-pink Hawaiian ti plant; the arrowhead syngonium; the forest of pink and white fittonia, which everyone gave as gifts the year my wife died. I soak the orchids, the flaming sword bromeliad, the tillandsia my daughter left behind when she moved out to LA. Then http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Missouri Review University of Missouri

Manifold Northeast Life & Trust

The Missouri Review , Volume 42 (3) – Nov 2, 2019

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Publisher
University of Missouri
Copyright
Copyright © The Curators of the University of Missouri.
ISSN
1548-9930

Abstract

Manifold Northeast Life & Trust Cat Powell Photo of cubicles by Tim Patterson; forest by Nicholas A. Tonelli F IC T IO N I wake early and water the plants. I have a lot of plants, and it takes the better part of an hour to see to them. Most are rescues that I find abandoned F A L L 2 019 • THE MIS SOURI RE V IE W 27 on suburban sidewalks, put out with the trash because they’re ugly or dying or refusing to flower. My oldest is a Ficus benjamina I’ve had for forty-v fi e years, retrieved from the garbage room of my freshman dorm with only three dark and glossy leaves to his name. Like me, he’s thick - ened with age, and unlike me, he’s grown so that his crown now brushes the dining room ceiling. I mist the broad-leafed bird-of-paradise that’s only ever flowered once; the purple-pink Hawaiian ti plant; the arrowhead syngonium; the forest of pink and white fittonia, which everyone gave as gifts the year my wife died. I soak the orchids, the flaming sword bromeliad, the tillandsia my daughter left behind when she moved out to LA. Then

Journal

The Missouri ReviewUniversity of Missouri

Published: Nov 2, 2019

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