Well, you did it. You made it to the ceiling before you kicked. I’ve known you since you were just a bunch of little cuttings. You were never so happy as when you were crammed under the fire escape stairs above the sushi restaurant with the neighbourhood squirrels digging in your soil—I’ll be damned if you didn’t grow three full feet under there. You bounced between cities in the back of more than one U-Haul, but you just couldn’t handle this latest move three blocks west in a late-March freeze. And furnace heat, which was new to you and hastened your demise. Your offspring bit it too, I’m sad to say. RIP, big guy.