Even though I don't remember most of my college experience, I’ll never forget the guy in my dorm who gave me a root and three wilting leaves from his shamrock plant. He informed me that shamrocks open up during the day and close at night, and I was absolutely amazed. I was amazed a lot back then.
My shamrock has no name and doesn’t need one. It has been a silent witness to so much of my life. When I moved across the country to California after college, I can’t tell you anything else I had in my car other than the freshly-watered shamrock sitting on a towel in the seat next to me.
He was there when I first got laid, quietly rooting for me to succeed. He was there the first time I took 'shrooms and never looked more amazing to me than he did that night, undulating in ways I had never dreamed possible. Even when I thought it would be funny to feed him a shot of Jameson’s, he didn’t wilt and took it in stride.
He’s been there with me through every apartment and girlfriend, and unlike myself, has always been strong and resilient, even once surviving an over zealous landscaper with a lawn trimmer who confused him for a weed.
That's the beauty of having a plant for all of these years. He's a living thing that has seen me through the best and worst of times. He's never been judgmental and only requires a sunny spot to rest, some water, and the occasional hit of Miracle-Gro. He’s been a loyal companion.
My wife immediately fell in love with him and that's when I really knew I was with the right woman. He now has a home in our yard among the many plants we’ve accumulated over the years, and although he may not be the fairest of them all, he still has a place of prominence perched high above all other shrubbery.
He lives in a simple terra cot pot. I’ve lost track of how many pots we've had him in, but this one suits him well. He had a rough summer in the intense heat of the San Fernando Valley, but now that it's almost fall he'll be lush and green again with a smattering of stately white flowers decorating his leaves.
Season’s change, people come and go, and my shamrock opens its leaves every morning as the sun rises.