He gave me a lucky bamboo plant for my birthday. Surrounded by smooth white pebbles, the pocket-size green stalk shot up from a four-inch ceramic bowl. The plant is of insignificant monetary value. When I moved back to Queens, I sat the bamboo in my lap, not daring to put it in a box. The relationship ended a few months later. I kept three of his books, an iTunes gift certificate, and the lucky bamboo. The miniature plant continues to reach up. It’s twice as high and continuing to flourish in a ceramic pot that is now too small for its ambition. It has remained confined to these tight quarters but I keep vowing to buy a bigger pot and more pebbles. At that point the plant would officially become mine. It’s strange to think that this is the only living thing shared between us.