The Gift for the First Apartment Alone

My friend Theo had never lived alone.

He had gone from his parents' house to college dorms to a series of shared apartments, four roommates, then three, then two, then one, all the way up to thirty-one. He was good at shared living. Considerate, easy, the kind of roommate people wanted to keep. But he had never had a space that was entirely his. Never decorated a wall without checking with someone. Never left dishes in the sink at midnight without thinking about it. Never had four hours of a Saturday where the apartment was completely, unambiguously quiet and his.

He signed the lease in September. A one-bedroom on the third floor with good light and a small balcony.

He called me from inside on the first night and said: I am just sitting here. Not doing anything. It is very quiet.

He sounded a little stunned. The good kind of stunned.

I had been thinking about what to give him.

He had been in shared spaces for so long that he had never really developed strong opinions about how he wanted to live. He had adapted. Now he had to choose, which was thrilling and also slightly overwhelming.

He had mentioned plants once, casually, that he had always wanted plants but had lived with people who were allergic or indifferent or who would not be around to water them. He had said: when I finally have my own place I am going to have plants everywhere.

I went to a good plant shop. Not a big one. A small one run by a woman who knew everything and asked questions before selling you anything. I told her about Theo. That he had never had a plant before. That he wanted them everywhere but did not know where to start.

She put together a starter collection. Five plants, all different, all relatively forgiving, with a handwritten card for each one explaining what it liked and what it did not. She tied them together with brown paper and string.

I brought them on the first Saturday.

He looked at them for a while.

He said: I do not know where to put them yet.

I said: that is the whole point. You get to decide.

He put them on the balcony for that first week. Then he moved them around. Last time I visited he had twelve plants, placed very specifically, in the exact places he had decided they belonged.

His apartment. His plants. His quiet. The gift was just the beginning of it.