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

"Death is always, under all circumstances, a tragedy, for if it is not then it means that life has become one." Theodore Roosevelt

Dear Ethers,

I was there.  I was in New York City.  I was 21 years old and had a plane ticket booked to leave out of JFK on American Airlines for September 13^th to London.   

Tuesday.  I remember the ceaseless noise of sirens.  Trash floating in the street.  The city a barren wasteland.  

Papers plastered everywhere on every possible surface with faces and names scrawled underneath begging for any information about loved ones.  College kids my age.  I stared at a picture of a boy.  It was a recent photo.  It said he was on a high floor.  I knew he was dead.  He looked so alive in the photo.  Handsome, even.  But the shaky pen on the flyer begged for information.  His picture was one of thousands on walls, on lamp posts, across the city.  I fingered these papers.  Hopeless cries for help, dirty and dusty from other fingerprints that had done exactly what I had just done—tried to touch their souls. 

I sat on a train where a couple had a list of hospitals that they were checking off looking for their daughter (this is what I could gather from their conversation).  It was grim.  They had many tick marks with X’s and not many hospitals left.  

The TV was relentless with coverage.  No one looked each other in the eye and if you did catch someone, it was a glazed over stare or a reddened, tear filled orb, exhausted from crying. 

No one understood.  The world had changed forever. 

I walked passed a firehouse that had candles burning for the men they lost.  

People clapped on the streets when a police car or a fire truck blazed by.

American flags were everywhere—it was a sea of red, white and blue.  But mainly blue. 

8 years.  Those interns would have been college graduates.  Some men and women might have been retired.  Many of those people might have been married and have had children.  

It used to haunt me.  The vision of that man who jumped out of the window.  What must he have been thinking?  Can you imagine having to decide to burn alive or jump to your death?  All he did was go into work. 

And then what about the woman who called in sick that day and never recovered? She still shakes everyday and is on disability from post-traumatic stress syndrome.  She believed it was her day to die and never forgave herself for not being in that building. 

I was one of 9 people who sat on the American Airlines 777 plane that finally got clearance to leave on September 19^th, 2001.  We all hoped that 777 was an omen.  I was grateful to leave.  I couldn’t bear the heaviness in the air anymore.  I couldn’t breathe from the pain and the loss.  

Being an American on September 10^th 2001 and being an American on September 11, 2001 was a transformation that will resonate with me for the rest of my life.  

I won’t say anything that anyone else hasn’t today.  But I felt it was essential to say my piece and honor those who perished.  Those who were strapped to their seats in horror when they hit the Pentagon.  Those who were brave and fought to their last breath to try and save their lives and their fellow man by rushing the pilot of that United plane.  Those who died in the towering inferno that was the World Trade Center.  The brave servicemen who went into that building knowing that they probably wouldn’t come out alive and put their lives aside to try and protect and serve.  

I am not a religious person.  It’s days like September 11^th that made me give up on that a LONG time ago.  But for those who perished and were pious—and for those whose families believe, I want to say that I hope that your loved ones are in heaven and are at peace.  And if I had a wish for you today it would be that you could touch those who you lost again and say good-bye one last time.  To have one last day.  To have it be September 10^th, 2001 again. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365