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Jacob's little plant grows on the kitchen windowsill on a cold winter's morn.

My kitchen windowsill needs some decluttering — as does the rest of the house (the quest to do so began full-throttle Monday morning in the living room and kitchen. A small dent made, I feel a sense of accomplishment).

That aside, a few signs of green appear on the sill, including a winding plant presented to me last Mothers Day by my toddler son. He brought it home a few days earlier from day care.

His daycare giver told me that the plant should grow rather well — and tall. She was right.

The plant winds from the little turquoise box in which it came. I water it every few days, turning on the faucet and letting the plant drink its fill. I take pride in it, as the green thumb seems to have skipped me in my family.

I’m not sure what it is, but I’m not good with keeping plants alive. Just ask Herbert, one of three cacti that remains in a terra cotta pot on the windowsill. I’m not sure why, but his “brothers,” Harry and Hagar, met their demise some years ago. I watered them just the same, but oh well …

I’ve received little plants from my daughter as well over the years. She brought home a decorated cup of soil in first grade that contained marigolds for Mothers Day. That plant actually bloomed off and on for about a year before it ceased to produce anymore flowers or greens. While a bit sad that the plant no longer blooms, I still have the container. I plan to use it again for more blooms.

These little plants aren’t just a way to brighten the kitchen. To me, they’re little signs of love from my little ones. They brought them home, decorated and ready to bloom. Their works of art that hold the plants speak volumes and hold memories of what their artistic levels held in those moments in time, even after the plants wither and die.