It's gorgeous, my favorite. And it's not because the pink blooms are delicate and cheery or due to the hardiness of this tropical plant. It's because of the history.
My Nana gave me this plant several years ago. It had come from a start from another plant, but she told me it was about 40 years old. It had been hanging in her kitchen window.
For most of my life, my grandparents lived on Lake Sammamish. I have fond memories of jumping off the end of the dock, feeding the ducks and eating my Nana's delicious macaroni salad while perched on the edge of a lawn chair.
She told me how to care for it, emphasizing that I should never cut the flowers off. If I did, it wouldn't bloom again.
I was delighted to add it to my collection of indoor greenery. Now it hangs in my kitchen.
When she died last year, this plant became even more precious. I carefully observe the delicate tendrils that proclaim new growth. I take note of any yellowing leaves. I dance in my kitchen when I see the first glimpse of a grouping of blossoms.
It reminds me of her.
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