All of my houseplants have come together for a family reunion on my porch. They are the last things I will move in my transition out of my apartment, along with a few shampoo bottles and precious vinegars and oils. They look good together, my plants: the orphaned orchid I rescued five years ago from the Oberlin College greenhouse next to the aloe vera that was an offspring of my godmother Meme's; the glossy-leaved coffee tree hauled back across the Pacific by my intrepid parents settled in beside the jade I inherited from an old roommate who now lives in South America.
The sage is only a baby, planted in late April in an old feta tin from work that I filled to the brim with dirt. It's made quite a home inside this once-briny tin, and I am proud. I am remembering now a dream I had last night of being on an island in Greece lounging in the hot sun. There were herbs and flowers and tan people. Then suddenly the skies darkened and I was running for cover from a tornado that whipped across the now-Oklahoma land and I was diving in and out of storm cellars, down ladders where people waited below, their faces white with fear and yelling at me to close the hatch.
