ode to francesco
Right now, or rather for the last few weeks, I've been putting off finishing a little zine I started. As my dad told me, I think the exhaustion of full-time work + keeping my evenings constantly busy is catching up to me. I'm suffering from success in a way, keeping up (willingly and joyfully!) with many friends, and leaving so little time to chill and rest up.
The zine that I'm putting off is an ode to my baby snake plant, Francesco. I have one quite large snake plant, and a few years ago I dug out a bunch of her offshoots to give out to friends, teachers, whoever wanted one. He's the only offshoot that I kept. We keep him in a little pot, effectively stunting his growth, but he doesn't seem to mind.
I kept him in my room for a year or two right by the window where he soaked in the strong morning light. One year I moved him down to the basement, where my dad likes to watch TV so he could see some evening sun from the back of the house. I wanted to show him the world, of course. Francesco was our lucky charm throughout the whole 2022 World Series, and we even gave him a little sticky note Blue Jays jersey.
When the World Series was over, I moved him back up to my room, and my dad was devastated. I think he and Francesco had formed a bond, and I felt that I had stripped him of his adoptive, botanical son. For Christmas that year, I wrapped Francesco's little pot with blue ribbon, and placed crystals from my room in his soil to dress him up. On Christmas morning, I carried him behind my back down the stairs and handed him over.
Now, Francesco lives happily in our backyard during the summer, only ducking inside for rainstorms. In the winter, he stays inside and hangs with my dad in the basement watching the Maple Leafs, sticking close to the window.
I wrote a little ode for him that I turned into an accordion zine that I just need to add photos of him to. Oh, someday.
FRANCESCO
Risen from the soils of contained, tamed Earth
The only one to stay close to home,
In the litter of sprouts just like you.
Your delicate roots call for the African sun,
And your generational displacement
Has brought you quite a long way to my windowsill.
Like the baby swan in a row of ducklings,
Your flaming golden flare is stifled in the weak Canadian sun.
Oh Francesco, how can I make it up to you?
Stand tall in these foreign lands, and learn to call strangers your own.
Hold home close to your heart,
Bury your feet as far as the little pot will let you.
After all, no matter where your home is, it’s still the same sun.