Lila’s eyes lit up. “Grandma loved ivy,” she said, reaching out to touch a tendril. “She used to grow it on her porch. Said it was ‘proof that love clings on, even when things turn cold.'” I smiled, recalling the Latin phrase I’d stumbled upon in that old poetry collection: Cras consectetur lectus id interdum—rough connections and the spaces between them, held together by something steady. That’s what the ivy was, I thought. A way to tie our story to hers, making the bench feel like more than just wood and memories.
We spent the afternoon planting the ivy at the base of the bench, digging small holes in the gym’s potted soil and gently guiding the tendrils toward the wood. Lila’s curly hair kept falling into her face as she worked, and I’d brush it back, my fingers lingering in the soft ringlets. “You’ll get dirt in your hair,” I said with a laugh. She chuckled, dabbing a smudge of soil off my cheek. “Look who’s talking—you’ve got ivy leaves in your shirt.” We sat back to admire our work: tiny vines curling around the bench legs, a promise of green even as winter approached. “Cras consectetur lectus id interdum,” I murmured, more to myself than to her. Lila tilted her head. “What does that mean?” I took her hand and pressed it against the bench, where a vine had already clung tightly to the wood. “It means this—rough edges, messy moments, but something that holds on. Like the ivy. Like us.”
We checked on the ivy every day, watering it when the soil dried out and adjusting the tendrils when they wandered toward the gym’s blue walls. Lila started bringing her grandma’s old gardening gloves—purple ones with frayed cuffs—and we’d tend to the vines on evenings after practice, talking about the kids (who’d called to say they missed “Coach Lila’s curly hair and banana snacks”) and the upcoming holidays. One night, we found a small ivy tendril coiled around the bench’s armrest, wrapped tight like a hug. “It’s clingy,” Lila said, her voice soft with wonder. I put my arm around her and pulled her close. “Just like we are,” I said.
By Thanksgiving, the ivy had grown halfway up the bench, its leaves glossy and green against the wood. We hosted a small dinner at the gym—turkey sandwiches, cranberry sauce, and banana muffins (of course)—and invited Mr. Torres and a few kids who lived nearby. Mia gasped when she saw the ivy. “It’s like the bench has a blanket!” she said, running her hand over the vines. Lila knelt down and helped Mia trace a tendril. “Grandma used to say ivy is a friend,” she said. “It stays with you, even when it’s cold.” Mia nodded, then plucked a small leaf and tucked it into Lila’s curls. “For your grandma,” she said. Tears welled up in Lila’s eyes, and I squeezed her hand.
After everyone left that night, we sat on the bench, with ivy winding around our ankles like a gentle embrace. The gym lights were dim, and the blue walls glowed softly. Lila pulled the ivy leaf from her hair and pressed it between the pages of her grandma’s photo album. “She would’ve loved this,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder. I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair—still a hint of cinnamon, a touch of dirt. “She’s here,” I said. “In the ivy, in the bench, in you.” We sat there for a long time, watching the ivy sway in the gym’s quiet, until Lila spoke again. “Remember when I hated my curls?” she said with a laugh. “Now they’re full of ivy leaves and banana sauce. Messy, but mine.” I brushed a curl from her face. “Messy, but perfect,” I said. “Just like us.”
Christmas came, and we hung a string of small white lights around the ivy-covered bench, their glow reflecting off the blue walls. Grandma’s purple gardening gloves hung from the bench’s armrest, and my sketchbook—filled with drawings of curls, ivy, and banana muffins—sat on the shelf next to the white lilac jar. We exchanged small gifts: I gave Lila a necklace with a tiny ivy leaf pendant, and she gave me a new sketching pencil—purple, of course—with a note that read: “To draw our story, one vine at a time.”
On New Year’s Eve, we stood by the bench—now mostly covered in ivy—and counted down to midnight. When the clock struck twelve, Lila kissed me, her curls brushing my face as the ivy leaves rustled in the breeze. “Here’s to more ivy,” she said with a smile. “More curls. More banana muffins.” I kissed her again, pressing my hand against the bench where the ivy clung tight. “Here’s to us,” I said. “To Cras consectetur lectus id interdum—to holding on, no matter what.”
Love isn’t about perfect vines or perfect hair. It’s about ivy clinging to an old bench, curls tangled with dirt and leaves, banana muffins and late nights spent tending to what matters. It’s about Lila—her curls, her kind heart, her love for her grandma, the kids, and me. It’s about rough edges and the spaces between them, held together by something steady.
As the ivy grows, as the curls bounce, and as we keep tending to our little corner of the gym, I know one thing for sure: we’ll keep clinging. To each other, to the memories, to the love that wraps around us like ivy—warm, steady, and eternal.
