This gorgeous antique print from the 19th century is of the Spathiphyllum, otherwise known as The Peace Lily. A common house plant, it's quite resilient and tough to kill and constantly reminds me of one of the many fond memories of English gent before he became MY English gent. I make sure always to have this cheap and cheerful plant in ANY residence I occupy.

Dear Ether, 

I ran into him at the vegetable section at Sainsbury’s in New Cross Gate.  I was 21 years old and he was 19.  He was carrying one of those dainty ferns that have delicate, petal like leaves that sadly die unless you have a masterful green thumb.  He didn’t have a basket and was carrying too much in his arms.  His face was slight obstructed by the plant.  “You might want to try a Spathiphyllum instead.  They’re almost impossible to kill and they let you know when they’re desperate for a drink—their leaves totally droop and look depressed.”  He looked past the greenery to see who the voice was coming from and grinned when he saw me.  “Hiya.  I don’t know what the hell a Spathiphyllum is but if you know a plant with a fucking name like that, I better take your word for it and put this one back.”  He was so damned good-looking and that accent then was still so novel.  So classy!  I felt like I was chatting with someone Bertie Wooster might know. 

I was doing my midnight shopping as usual because I was a night owl and the store was dead.  I still found UK supermarkets a marvel.  They were so different than the large American ones and I loved strolling down the aisles and buying things I’d never heard of before to taste (though Mr. Brains Frozen Faggots never did make the tick-list).  English gent was wearing a very hip beanie covering his hair so I didn’t see his normally trendy blonde hair cut.  All I could see were his beautifully sculpted features and his dark eyebrows and lashes with his rare peridot green eyes.  I noticed he had a bottle of Jack Daniels as part of his shopping along with writing paper, some pens and oddly a prayer candle.  “What are you up to tonight?” I asked him nonchalantly.  I had been hanging out with him along with a few of my flatmates recently.  He went to boarding school with one of the guys I was living with and was particularly friendly with him and came over to our halls a lot.  The three of us often stayed up talking, drinking, smoking weed and listening to chill music.  I only bothered with this banter because of him.  I felt when we argued over a political point or some other runaway discussion there was some sort of sexual tension.  But then he would just act as mates when we would run into each other.  

“Tonight.  Fuck me.  I have a paper to write.  The whiskey always inspires me,” he chuckled. “And is the prayer candle lit to give you a hope from god to help you finish the thing?” I asked.  He laughed.  “No, I love to write poetry by candlelight and these last forever.” He writes poetry too….oh man……! “Well, I’m not up to anything, so if you finish your paper and you wanna pop on over when you’re done it’d be cool to hang out.”  He nodded his head negatively. “This one is gonna be an all nighter.  But thanks anyway.  I better get that plant—the—Spatha—that whatever you recommended and get going.  Cheers!”  I was gutted.  I just didn’t get it.  I guess he knew I liked him and wasn’t interested.  I meandered around Sainsbury’s a bit more, no longer keen on the novelty of the place and saw him, well, the tall leaves of his plant, in the check-out line, and watched him go.  Sauntering home with, I think that night, Marmite flavored crisps (a nasty surprise) I was bored stiff and cozied up with a book and passed out.  But at 2:30am my mobile rang.  It was English gent.  I was excited, but had to sound calm and cool.  “Hey, what’s up?  How’s your work going?”  He sounded relaxed and relieved.  “I’m done, actually and have a full bottle of whiskey and not a friend in the world tonight.  Mind if I come over?”  MIND?  Of course not!  But, as we Americans say, this was NOT going to be a “booty call.” 

I feverishly threw on something cute, but not trying “too hard cute,” stashed away my candy wrappers and waited with my heart in my chest.  He didn’t knock–he just texted saying he was about to come in the flat.  I jolted up from my bed, opened the door and there he stood.  Diesel jeans (perfect cut), vintage top with a fantastic toggle coat, chic boots (rugged and manly, yet still on trend) the bottle of booze and that damned dashing grin.  Two kisses on each cheek he was in the door, 3 hours later we were drunk, and an hour later I was ready to pass out.  “Can I sleep here tonight?  I can’t be asked to head back to my flat.” Okay.  Remember. NO BOOTY CALL.  SINGLE BED.  SO…WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?  “Sure, do you mind sleeping on the floor, I have a spare duvet and a pillow—it’ll be padded and comfy.”  He looked taken aback, but not too shocked.  I think he thought I was going to invite him to sleep with me.  

By the time I came back from the bathroom where I changed and brushed my teeth, he was passed out.  He was like one of my English novelties I had brought back from the supermarket.  Except I hadn’t tried him—yet.  No, this one I was going to savor, because I didn’t know if it had a day old expiry date.  I stared at him.  His lashes spread out like fans almost touching his cheeks, a slight squint as if he was thinking in a dream, his lips slightly parted blowing air out making a feather from the duvet flicker.  I knew he couldn’t hear me.  He was way too drunk and way too deep in sleep.  So I whispered, “I think I love you.  And I have a feeling we’re going to be together.  You’ll see.  When I want something and I try hard enough, I get it.”  Oh if only the two of us knew how right I was to be that night.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

"Better keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world." George Bernard Shaw

Dear Ethers, 

Often times when I’m lying in bed thinking, I’ll leave the window open and cover myself up in the duvet.  I like the cool breeze on my face while my body is swathed in the rich down.  Today in Los Angeles we had very heavy winds.  It was the first sign of fall. Crackling leaves dragged their dead forms down the street making scratching noises as they flew pass.  The trees shook and swayed and crows squawked their horrid cry while picking the newly laid seeds in the fertilizer often laid just before Halloween.  I stared out my window while all this was happening, warm under my blanket, only my face exposed to the day outside, and I breathed everything in, squinting whenever a ray of sun peeked through a branch.   

This is the same thing I’ve been doing since I was a little girl.  It’s strange to me that I’ve been doing this in the same bed, through the same window and past the same tree; just a different date and an older body.  I never thought I’d be on the brink of 30 staring out this window pondering, waiting for another winter to come.  You know what’s funny? I never thought I’d ever BE 30.  I remember being in a bowling alley with my parents and there were a bunch of adults and college kids.  They seemed SO old.  I thought I’d never live to see that age.  And you know what, they were younger than I am today. 

But it’s crazy.  As the years go by, they go by so much faster.  My parents are in their late 60’s, the Big Apple Beauty is almost 70 (my god—she always seemed ageless) and the car my parents bought me for getting into college (that I still so vividly remember driving for the first time) is almost 11 years old.  How does time escape us?  My grandmother, who is 93, said that you look in the mirror at 25 and the next minute you’re her age (if you’re lucky)–that’s how quickly things go.  And the scary part is that things from your youth only seem like yesterday.  

Being human is such an odd condition.  It’s something I’ve never really gotten my hands around.  Someone took a picture of me about 8 years ago looking out my said window—they caught me with the sun in my eyes.  My pupils were lit by the sun—they looked like illuminated oak floors with a spray of black lines breaking through the wood.  I remember very clearly what I was thinking in that picture.  That I couldn’t believe another sunset was happening. Do you know that your eyes stay the same size as they were when from the day that you were born?  I’ve always had really big eyes.

I cannot tell the future.  I cannot fix the past.  I can wish, but I often find that futile. It’s nighttime now.  The wind is blowing heavily and I’ve shut the window because of the chill.  I’ll wake again tomorrow and spend a few minutes of the morning staring at the sky.  I’ll collect my thoughts.  It’ll be a new day.  New leaves will fall from trees and be blown down the street scratching away into oblivion and I wonder what my day will be like.  What will hit me next? What memory will fall into my mind?  And I’ll wrap myself tight in my duvet and ponder, feeling the breeze on my face seeing life’s clock ticking through each leaf that does a pirouette to the floor.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365