pothos, pathos
written by amelia rodriguez / a.k.a amy
published october 8, 2026
The purple-potted pothos keeps you grounded.
You keep looking at the plant whenever you're in the living room. Its two long vines drape over the pot, over the counter, sitting in the air. Confusion lingers in your mind each time you stare down its leaves. You remember this plant sitting on the kitchen counter of your family home over a decade ago. How has it even survived for so long?
Do you remember when exactly the pothos plant first appeared? Not really. It was probably bought by your mother, and placed in the kitchen one day with absolutely no fanfare. But you do remember the first time you tried to water the plant. You gave it way too much, and were scolded accordingly, because the plant could have drowned, obviously. This can't happen again.
From the corner of your eye, each day, dark green leaves colored the background of every rushed breakfast that accompanied your mornings before school. As you grew in height, the vines grew in length. As the dirt in the pot became dry, you gave it the perfect amount of water, every time, marveling at how many vines were growing out of the same spot.
The plant could not talk. You definitely wondered at least once if it could dream. If a plant could dream, it had memories to draw from. If a plant had memories, it had experiences, and there is no end to your hopes of learning about the way other beings perceive our fleeting lives on the planet we all share. Of course, you never told anyone about these hopes, because your life so far has taught you to bury thoughts that others would see as stupid.
What you knew for a fact is that the plant was there for you. It never left the kitchen, but you and your family members entered and exited constantly. The purple pot could always be trusted with whatever you had to say, because it never moved from its spot. You adored the consistency that it never wavered in. You definitely wished that more people in your life were like the pothos.
Could you think highly of a specific plant? Yeah, you can, can't you? How can you not? Surely a plant that's watched half of your life is more than an ordinary plant. You know you can follow the vines further and further back, and confront the events that the plant bore witness to.
Middle school comes and goes. High school comes and goes. College comes and gets aborted abruptly. One more year comes and goes. That year was really rough for you. Staying mostly confined to your room staying awake until 4AM every day seemed like a dream come true for a while, until the dream was devoured into a nightmare. You didn't see the plant as often, nor did you water it as often. Your mother had to pick up that slack. Yet it persisted.
The world isn't done messing with you yet. Now comes one of the worst things imaginable that could happen to you. That's why it's time to start planning a hasty retreat. It doesn't matter where, right? As long as you escape, you can live a life. Where? Ohio? Sure, whatever. The long-term planning can come later, but you need to leave as soon as possible. There's nothing else to do.
One of the vines begins to shrivel up. It dies.
You grit your teeth through the last summer spent in your hometown. Maybe because there's a sense of encouragement coming from the plant, you forge a path through every tiring shift at work. September couldn't come soon enough. But what about the pothos? There's no way you want to leave it here, right? No, absolutely not. The plant is going to come with you.
The night before your move, it's time for the procedure. Multiple layers of paper towels are sitting in front of you, and you take your fingers, digging them slowly into the dirt. With the lightest possible force, the plant is gradually lifted out. The short length of the root system surprises you. Is that it? The plant been showing its full self the whole time, with nothing beneath the surface? The plant is placed ever so gently upon the paper towels. Moving to the kitchen sink, you give the pot a deep clean. That was satisfying. When was the last time that anyone in the family cleaned out the pot that the pothos made itself home in? It was the least you could do now.
Would the plant survive the trip in the air? You were terrified at the thought of unpacking your bags only to find a plant that had been torn to shreds by an ignorant airport security employee. It's okay. It'll be fine. You're overthinking it, as usual. It's a routine of thinking that you will come to be more and more familiar with, but that's okay, too. You just have to focus on the plant right now. So you pack it inside of a big plastic bag, carefully giving it space to breathe in your suitcase. You get another plastic bag, and go outside to the garden shed to pack fresh dirt for the plant to live in. Now it's time to pack the purple pot. To pack the purple pot will mean the end of your packing, and your point of no return.
Deep, deep, deep down in the recesses of your mind, you push away a recurring thought you don't want to say out loud. You know it. You know this situation that you've found yourself in. You don't want to. You don't want to do it. You needed more time. You needed a different circumstance. You needed everything to go differently. You didn't want it to go this way. You don't want to go yet. You don't want to be rushing this. You don't fucking want to be rushing this. But you have to.
Sleep starts to take you into restless dreams. Inside your suitcase, a vine begins to wither.
You're awoken by your alarm, and soon surrounded by all of your siblings, saying one last goodbye. Your sister gives you a bag of gifts. You and your siblings all embrace in a group hug. You go downstairs, bringing your bags, and your mother hugs you farewell. The move is a blur. You're driven to the airport by one of the very people who caused it. Their sobbing over a situation which is entirely self-induced on their part confuses you. You have no sympathy for this crying. At the airport, before saying goodbye, you spite them. You “remember” to give back your set of house keys. It makes them hurt more. You hope it will make them understand. You know it won't, though.
One flight later. One reunion later. One drive later. There it is. The apartment complex that you and your partner were approved for. The area doesn't look great. A suburb, one hour north of downtown by bus. It's been less than thirty minutes and you already begin to sense- no, no, it doesn't matter. It's time to sign the lease. Oh, wait, look at that. The apartment you got approved for is suddenly unavailable, and now you have to rent a different apartment that's fifty-one dollars more expensive per month. Whatever, who fucking cares. You just have to move in. So you sign the lease.
A hailstorm of boxes fly up the stairs and into the new apartment. Let it be a blur. As soon as you possibly can, you free up space on the raised counter in your new kitchen. Unpacking your suitcase, you pull out the purple pot, the bag of dirt, and the pothos. Much to your relief, it looks intact, save for some wrinkles on one of the leaves. With loving hands, you place the pot on the counter, and empty the dirt inside, packing it down smoothly. Making a hole in the center, you unzip the pathos plant bag, stringing out its long vines, placing them on the countertop as you plant its roots inside the hole. Covering the roots with the dirt, you get a cup and fill it with water, dripping a small amount over the pot. Finally, it's done. It's done. It's done. The pothos and its purple pot are home. You hope that you're home, too.
The pothos plant continues its ever-watchful presence over your life. It sees you coming home from your new job, every day. You know that the plant can see it just as well as your partner can; the office job life is not meant for you. Little more than a month in, and it kills you inside, slowly and methodically. The plant sees your days beginning to merge together in a cycle of exhaustion that only grows worse and worse. You have no choice, of course. It pays the bills. It makes you financially stable. That's worth it, right? You convince yourself of this. The pothos is not as convinced. Sitting in the living room, you stare at the pothos, with its two long vines draped over the counter.
Oh- it's time for this conversation, again. This argument isn't new. Each time the subject comes up, you wish you had a different response. How can you help her understand? You're tired. You're so fucking tired. You're not trying to hurt her. Maybe you can do it another day. Another day means another opportunity for a promise. The pothos sees it from a mile away. You're behind the kitchen counter. She's behind her desk. The pothos is in between. It can't take a side. The stress, the stress, oh God, the stress. You end the argument for the day with a promise that you probably won’t be able to fulfill. You know you can't predict your mood in the future, but you wish you fucking could.
A vine fades into browner hue.
You continue to keep the plant safe and watered. Nearly one year after moving, your new routine has solidified. It's not as exciting as you hoped it would be, and you've grown frustrated with it, but there is nothing you can do. One of the only things that keeps you grounded is the pothos. The plant is old. The plant has grown, and ungrown. One vine remains. One vine, dotted with dark green leaves. One vine, and the stories it carries within. It's lasted this long. You're doing all that you can.
Summertime. Vacation time. Finally, a goddamn break. It also means a break from the pothos. You're prepared for this, though. That's why you bought an automated watering device to care for it during the week you'll be gone. It'll be okay. So you fly out with your partner, into the social unknown. And in that unknown, you enter the territory of fright. A frightening feeling that you go along with, because it's exciting, and new. You don't really think much about it. He probably doesn't, either. You just let yourself get wrapped up in the warmth, in the fuzziness, because it's sudden, because it’s fresh.
The plant is doing okay when you return. You notice that more of the leaves have fallen off, but the vine itself is still a pleasant green. So, you don't fret too much. The fretting will come soon. Maybe the pothos was trying to warn you. It’s learned from experience that change is a powerful force, one that is not always for the better, one that cannot always be planned for. Yet, you don't heed the plant's warning. If it could, it would probably sigh at you. Instead, it becomes saddened.
Nobody could be prepared for their life to change forever on one August evening. Least of all you. That's why, after you come home from work that evening to face it, your ability to engage in routine stops. There is no routine in a time like this. No routine. No comfort. No pleasure. Only debilitation. Only a new type of suffering. Last year's wasn't enough. And the pothos knew. It saw everything when it happened. She's only telling you all of it now, almost a year later. The plant was never able to tell you, but you wonder if it wanted to. It's too late. It's too late. It's too late. It's too late. The thought repeats.
The vine changes color.
It's impossible. The pain is impossible. Everything becomes impossible. In that pain, you don't even realize. You don't even realize what's slipping away, right in front of you. The cup of water is neglected. The watering device is unplugged. The thoughts all exited your mind as soon as you came home from work that night. There was no plant in the apartment that could be tended to by anyone. Not by you, and certainly not by her. The grasp of depression tightens.
The plant knew.
One brisk autumn morning, you wake up next to her, the same as always. There's not much of a choice, after all. Only one bed. You get out silently, and slowly step to the kitchen to scrounge together a breakfast. You get to the pantry, and take out a box of cereal. You move to counter. Suddenly, your head moves up, called by instinct.
You see a purple pot, sitting on the counter. Inside the pot lies a lone, brown, deceased vine, with one round leaf still attached.
You stare at the vine. You begin to cry.