Our theme for the month of October is “flash nonfiction.” Writers were asked to submit pieces that were 250 words or less.
Auntie Wu hands him to me—a single, rootless leaf in a styrofoam cup filled with water. I bring him home in my car’s cup holder. Water sloshes with every pothole.
His body is like the Levite concubine. We rehome most of him to three trusted friends before moving.
I water him weekly—always Mondays, a disciplined rhythm I enjoy. This slips to Tuesdays, then Thursdays; Tuesdays again these days.
He is a five-foot tower that dominates our cramped kitchen landscape. How will we transport him across the country?
I brush past and snag his leaves, muttering an apology, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
He unfurls a new leaf in a spiral unsheathing, a self-subsuming entwining of sword and scabbard.
He has a growth spurt, but it’s as if he has been skipping leg day at the gym. He suddenly topples: his twig-thin waist cannot support his bulging, leafy muscles. We prop him up with sticks and twine.
He is naked, stretched onto the cold, tile floor. We chop him into pieces following the YouTube gardener’s instructions. We insert each of his limbs into pots of fresh soil like pieces of Jadis’s lamp-post iron.
From Ann Arbor to Dearborn, I buckle him into the front seat. I can barely see through the green overgrowth to the window and mirror. We both need haircuts.
He is a shriveled, lifeless nub. We wonder how his propagated cousins are faring. We exhume his body to discover life; a fragile root has sprouted.

Chad Westra (’15) is a Ph.D. student at the University of Washington where he studies modern Chinese history. He enjoys chess, following Detroit sports, and caring for the overgrowth of plants in his condo.