Margaret Chula

Philodendron

My name comes from the Greek, meaning “loves trees.” Over seven hundred species of my relatives flourish in swamps, tropical forests, and rock outcroppings all over the world. But here I am, next to the trash bin in the women’s restroom of the ARCO gas station in Philomath, Oregon. I began my life in a factory, where my heart-shaped leaves were sprayed with fire retardant. Then I was shipped in a truck, leaf to leaf with other rootless plants. I spent my first few months on Aisle 4 of Home Depot, next to a faux-leather loveseat. I shouldn’t say life because I’m not actually alive. Just a fake plant with silk leaves that will never reproduce. My vines will never wrap themselves around jungle trees. Just two feet tall, I will not grow any larger. My plastic pot is cracked, my leaves dusty, and the fluorescent lighting makes me look ghoulish. I’m waiting for the day when the ARCO manager throws me into the landfill where I’ll have a chance to finally put down roots.

again she pitches
her tent on the sidewalk
dandelions in the crack

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About the Author

Margaret Chula has been writing haiku, haibun, and tanka for over forty years. One Leaf Detaches (haiku) was awarded a Touchstone Distinguished Book Award in 2019. Her new haibun memoir, Firefly Lanterns: Twelve Years in Kyoto, received a NYC 2022 Big Book Award in Multicultural Nonfiction. Maggie lives in Portland, Oregon, and enjoys hiking in the Columbia River Gorge.

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