I thought it was just a drawing – it was more. The aloe plant I sketched belonged to my teenaged son and drawing it drew him to me. 

He doesn’t beg my attention. Like me, he always has a project on the go. Like me, he’s always looking for a chance to escape and create. But when our projects crossed paths and my attention was directed to something he had done, he was ready to talk. 

I set down my pen. When my teen wants to talk, it’s time for me to listen. 

He reminded me he got this plant as a gift a few Christmases ago. Each of us, as a gift, received a plant. Each of us, except him, killed a plant. It was tiny when he received it, just as he was tiny when I received him. The plant grew – it grew some more. He replaced one pot with the next size up, as I often replace one set of his clothes with the next size. 

The plant grew up – it also spread out as it produced babies. In fact, the one I drew was a pup produced by the parent plant. He carefully separated the roots and the gift he received became a gift to another – for his sister on her birthday. 

My boy, too, has spread out. Like a baby aloe plant, he was once right by my side, but over time he expanded his interests, he made his own friends, he gained his own experiences – gradually separating himself from me. 

I liked having him, as a baby, in my arms. Safe.

One time, when he was repotting, a part of the plant broke off. He put it in water and weeks later, while showing me his collection of plants, he led me to it again. I saw the yellowing leaves and thought it was lost, but he pulled the plant from the water, showing new roots had grown. The leaves in the middle were greener, healthier. 

He had shown me his plant’s resilience. And its vulnerability: I remembered his own. I wanted to keep him by my side, to shield him from things that could break him. But I couldn’t stop the little sprout by my side from growing into a teen: a process I feared.

I’m learning to replace that fear with anticipation. The miracle of watching my son unfold brings me a pride I never imagined. It pales my fear. I felt this pride when he showed his collection of aloe plants – caring for them wasn’t something I taught him – it came from within. 

He’s the same boy I once held in my arms, the same boy I once held my arms out for – as he learned to walk, as he jumped into the pool, after he scraped his knee.

Now my arms are still open wide, but he doesn’t run to them. I hold them open for him to venture away. I want to grasp tight, not let him go. I’m afraid of him hurting. But by holding tight, I’m the one who hurts him. 

The original plant, that was once tiny, did I tell you about it? It grew oh so tall, and it flowered. He glowed when it flourished under his care, as I glow, watching him flourish.

As his own interests lead him farther from me, I’ll watch for the times when they cross, like while drawing Healing Aloe. 

I’ll set down my pen and I’ll savour each of those moments with my little sprout, so grown up.