If you look closely you will see that this ficus tree was not planted at all. It stands above the ground, retaining the shape it had when it was growing inside a pot, in an apartment on the other side of the street.

After she left him, he became morose. Is there a word that combines despair and anger? That’s what he felt, especially late at night, after drinking too much beer. One such night, he noticed that the little tree she had cared for wasn’t doing so well. Maybe that was because of the cigarettes he stubbed out and left in the dirt. Or maybe it was because he didn’t remember to water it. He certainly didn’t sing or speak to it as she had often done. In a fit of despair-rage he picked up the plant by the trunk and flung it from the balcony. The dirt was dry and so the little tree easily slipped out of the pot, which fell and shattered on the balcony, and flew in a glorious arc across the street and landed somewhere in the dark. The root ball, and the dirt it clung to, was the heaviest part of the little tree and thus lead the way, which is why it landed right side up on the sloping meadow. Later that night it rained and by the morning little roots were drilling down into the grass and the dirt below, anchoring the tree to this spot. It had found a place to grow.