So, this morning, I looked out one of the windows of my new abode – the one with the fire-escape where my plants have been exiled away from my roommate’s cat. And what did I see? Nothing. ‘Cause my fucking avocado plant is missing! The pot is still there. The soil in which it was planted is dug up a bit, so it’s not like the plant broke off in a strong wind (not that there have been any recently). Whoever took the plant dug it up, roots, pit, and all. At first I was dumbstruck. Who would care about my avocado plant? And if there were a plant thief lurking the back air-wells and fire-escapes of my new neighborhood, why would he take my avocado only and leave undisturbed, sitting squarely next to it, my verdant herb garden? Then I realized, the only logical thieves would be the squirrels scrambling along the freeway of fire-escape railings and nearby electrical cables. It’s the BQE out there with bushy-tailed gridlock and everything. On Puerto Rican Squirrel Day and Gay Squirrel Pride Week? Fuhgeddaboudit.
Apparently, the squirrel-thief-mother-fucker loves avocado pits as much as he loves nuts, but couldn’t give a damn about basil. Must be from the suburbs.
In the recent scheme of my life, this isn’t a big deal. But it’s a poignant deal because I started the avocado shoot back in Queens, two apartments ago. I’m not going to go into the gruesome details here, but my close friends know that I’ve had a killer two years with multiple heartbreaks, spiraling financial woes, medical issues and relentless uprooting and change. And however unlikely a symbol, my avocado plant was thriving throughout a good deal of this chaos. Whenever I looked at it, I felt hopeful that I too was growing and that despite whatever life was maniac-ly throwing my way – cackling and chugging Night Train all the while – my own roots and branches were digging deeper and growing stronger as well. If I couldn't weather it all like a superhero, I could at least weather it as well as an avocado plant.
Where is my symbol now? From what may I gather hope and strength in the final flurry of my Saturn return?
I’m prone to mystical thinking but, because I’m no longer a receptive audience for life’s bad, and now stale, humor, I can’t be bothered to connect this piece of synchronicity to any larger web of meaning. I simply don’t have the energy to believe that my abducted avocado plant foreshadows some ruin headed my way. But I swear to God, if I figure out which squirrel did it! I have an emergency flare with his felching asshole written all over it.
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