About a month ago, the bonsai that I’ve had for about seven years died. It died not long before I left to visit my parents over the Christmas holidays.
An ex-girlfriend and I each bought a bonsai one summer. We kept them at our respective homes, and we’d talk about them when we visited each other. I’m not sure when her’s died, but I found out that it was a long time ago.
Mine, I kept. I used to keep it in my room, along with a number of other plants. I brought it with me when I moved out to Toronto, then to Orillia, and then back to Toronto. It’s seen its fair share of travel in the back seat of my car. Each time it moved it seemed to get bigger and better. Now, however, it’s dead.
Ever since its passing it’s been sitting, where it has always sat in this apartment, on my dining table. I haven’t had the heart to get rid of it. I clean up around it, careful not to knock the dry, petrified leaves off of the branches.
I think the downfall was when I pruned the plant back in late-September. I did some reading on the how you’re supposed to maintain a bonsai plant and shape it through pruning. Until then, it had been growing freely. Uninhibited.