My mother’s dieffenbachia was always in the background of my life, quietly beautifying a room with its green, white-speckled leaves. In my childhood home in Texas, it sat in a pot on adobe-red tile that was cool to the touch of bare feet, even when it was 105 degrees outside.
I don’t remember my mother ever watering or caring for the plant — it was just there, while she and I worked in the galley kitchen, peeling shrimp, husking corn and washing fresh peaches from our tree. My mother got the dieffenbachia from my great-grandmother, Mama. Mama died before I was born, but I was told she taught my mother how to cook. I imagined the two of them side by side in a hot kitchen with flour and paprika all over the place, with the dieffenbachia in the next room, making the house a little more vibrant.
