If there’s one thing I’ve kept with me since moving to New York City, it’s a love of plants. I grew up surrounded by them, overwhelmed by them really – wisteria crawling up over our barn, clover in every crack of the patio. Those weeds were once the bane of my existence – they meant hours of pulling and pruning in the sun, but my mother, committed lady that she is, kept me going on the promise of a beautiful garden.

It was a yearly ritual, flipping through those colorful seed catalogues, picking out the new crop. We’d start the seedlings inside and watch them grow, quick and mighty. When I got to high school, I took college-level biology, and the best part of the class was the plant unit, where we got to go outside and identify the local species of greenery, sketch and label them like the botanists of old. I used to say that’s what I’d grow up to be, a naturalist like Muir or Burroughs, a wandering plant lover in the wild.

Clearly that has not come to pass. I live in a raging city, and as far as gardens go, my living room windowsill will have to do. I’ve filled it with various experiments – blooming succulents, tiny ivies, a pepper plant that can’t make more than one pepper at a time. I love them dearly, and when my mother FaceTimes, I flip the camera around to show her.

This season, I got myself a single hyacinth, growing in a little glass vase, to add to the collection. It was $3 from Trader Joe’s. I didn’t have high hopes. But it blessed me and bloomed bright pink for a few glorious days. I was obsessed. I took so many pictures. And then it started wilting, and the water turned a ghastly green, and I knew there was only one thing to be done. I had to bring it upstate.

My sister and I had plans to visit over spring break, but our travel day was a busy one, and the hyacinth wound up going on quite a journey. We packed up our stuff and made our way first to Central Park, where we were meeting a friend for a picnic. We set up the hyacinth on our blanket and it sat there all sad and green, waiting for us to finish our fun. Those famous cherry trees put it to shame, poor thing. We carried it drooping onto the subway, through Penn Station, then got on the wrong train and wound up at Newark Airport. About face, new train, and three hours later, we were in Ellenville. All this with a dying hyacinth in hand. Oh, the funny looks we got.

The flower is now safely planted in my mother’s garden, next to a pink hyacinth just like it. I’ll come to visit it next spring when it blooms. In the meantime, there are more plants to admire. My commute takes me right through the lilac grove in Central Park and the smell is so lovely right now. So yes, even in the middle of Manhattan, I’ve found a way to keep my gardening spirit alive. I have my mother to thank for the inspiration.