It arrived at our house sometime around her birth. I can't remember whether it was delivered when she was born, or when we brought her home. There were sixty-six days in between those two events. Those months were filled with twice-daily trips downtown to the hospital, attaching myself to a breast pump eight times a day, updates from doctors and nurses, phone calls with family and friends, and work, surprisingly.
That was almost twenty-seven years ago. The pink ceramic baby buggy contained an assortment of plants, one of which was a small dragon dracaena. The plants lived on the nursery windowsill in the buggy for awhile, until it was evident that they needed their own pots.
The dracaena must have liked the light on the eastern side of our house, because it continued to grow...and grow...and grow. I transplanted it into bigger and bigger pots, until its current twenty-inch home in the living room, because that's the only place that gets that light and has a higher ceiling--which is not high enough. And because I know nothing about the care of a dracaena, it has become a twisted, tangled, looped mass of trunks and dead ends, with massive heads of long leaves in our window, thriving in the light there. I can't bear to prune it for fear of killing the plant, and so it continues to grow up and around, the ends that hit the ceiling bearing sparse leaves that don't enjoy the same access to sunlight as the bent branches below.
Our daughter's husband is a botanist by training; perhaps when they move to the United States and get a home of their own, he can tame the gangly dragon. The tree really is hers, after all.