"Is there anything you want from Grandma's apartment?" My uncle, texting me, last week.

His mum had passed away the week before, aged 96. He'd begun the painful yet necessary task of dividing her things: keep, sell, donate.

I answered without thinking. "Yes, I would like her aloe (芦荟) in the orange pot, please. "

Sometime around 1975, Grandma received this plant from a local cook as a gift. It could, I suppose, just be anything like a calendar, or a pen, or a box of biscuits. But it just happened to be a plant, which Grandma, who always had green fingers, appreciated and placed in her doorway. 

Five years later, my mum married the cook's son. And had me.

When my father's mother died in 1993, Grandma told me how this plant was different from the other ones she had in her home. It helped to keep a good relationship between the two sides of the family.

In recent years, whenever we visited Grandma's apartment, I would show it to my children. "Look at this, it was a gift your great-grandma bought for your other great-grandma! Before they became relatives!"

Many times, Grandma gave me cuttings of this plant, in the hope that I might grow another. Yet, every time, I failed to take care of my offshoots (分支). Aloe is hardy (适应力强). However, if you over-water or under-water it, it dies. It doesn't mix well with dogs or under-heated flooring. In short, with my skills, I'm better off with a plastic one from a supermarket.

But that didn't use to matter, because I could ask Grandma for another cutting and try again Now I can't. So straight after I asked my uncle for this plant, I came up with the idea: the plant will go and live with Ann, my wife's mother, who can grow plants well and keep hold of Grandma's aloe—at least until I can be trusted to look after its offshoots. Then maybe one day I can confidently place the mother plant in my own home. At the same time, Ann will spread cuttings among her family members, as Grandma used to do.