At 9:17 a.m. on Saturday, July 15, 2025, sunlight slanted through the arched floor-to-ceiling windows in my living room. I leaned back on a light gray linen sofa, my fingertips tracing the grain of the wooden coffee table, eyes resting on the artificial dragon tree placed diagonally in front of me.
Soft rays of sunlight crept across the white wainscoting, breaking the wall into alternating patches of light and shadow. The air was filled with the rich aroma of Kenyan AA coffee—my third cup from the built-in coffee machine. The first two had already been shared between my husband Mark and me. Looking at the outstretched leaves of the artificial dragon tree, I chuckled, remembering what Mark said last week: “It looks like it’s growing toward the window.” It’s a fake plant, yet somehow, with the changing light and shadow, it seems to possess a kind of lifelike charm.
This 1.2-meter-tall artificial dragon tree stands at the junction between the living and dining rooms. Its deep brown ceramic pot features hand-crafted wave patterns that echo the vintage texture of the nearby walnut sideboard. The broad leaves spread from the thick trunk, with the topmost leaves slightly curling upward. Last week, when the cleaning service came for a deep clean, the housekeeper cautiously asked if she should wrap the plant in plastic to keep dust off. When I told her it was artificial, she circled the pot twice in surprise: “The leaf veins look so real—even the natural curl at the tips!”
Ding dong— The doorbell rang just as the vintage wall clock struck 10:30. My best friend Claire arrived with her twin sons, who burst into the living room like wild colts and were immediately drawn to that vibrant green presence.
“Mom, look! A big tree!” Five-year-old Tommy reached for the lowest leaf. Claire was about to scold him, but I waved it off with a smile, “It’s okay, it doesn’t mind being tugged.”
Claire squinted at the plant as she came closer. “Wait—is this dragon tree real?” She reached out and gently touched a leaf, her fingertips tracing the veins. “It feels just like the real thing—even has that fuzzy texture on the underside.” The sunlight had just moved to the middle of the plant, illuminating the translucent leaves and casting watercolor-like shadows on the cream-colored carpet, where light green and deep green hues danced.
“It’s artificial,” I said, handing her a glass of iced mint tea. “I bought it before Christmas last year. Remember I managed to kill three real plants before?” Claire burst out laughing. Of course, she remembered the fiddle-leaf fig that died from overwatering and the monstera that my cat chewed to baldness.
“But this one looks even more vibrant than real plants.” Claire leaned in for a sniff. “No earthy smell—just a hint of your cedar-scented diffuser. Very pleasant.” She pointed to the tallest leaf. “Look how evenly the sunlight hits that amber-tinted edge.”
I looked at the artificial dragon tree, remembering why I chose it. I first saw it in a garden shop, paired with some faux air plants nestled in the ceramic pot. “You know I travel all the time. I simply can’t take care of real plants. But without any greenery, the house feels too cold,” I said, brushing aside a leaf drooping toward the sofa. “This one doesn’t need watering, fertilizing, or repotting—and still looks full of life every single day.”
The twins were already circling the plant, gently patting the leaves and making soft rustling sounds. Claire watched them, then suddenly said, “My entryway could use something like this. Guests always say it looks too bare. How much was this? I’ll check it out next week.”
After Claire left, the living room returned to its peaceful state. I curled up on the sofa, flipping through an old photo album, my gaze drifting now and then toward the artificial dragon tree. By 3 p.m., the sunlight had softened, wrapping the leaves in a sheer veil, turning their deep green into olive tones.
When I first brought it home, something felt like it was missing. Until one morning at 7 a.m., coffee in hand, I stood by the window and saw the sunrise stretch its shadow across the wainscoting—the trunk casting mottled outlines like a real tree. In that moment, it truly felt like part of the home.
Now, every morning, I start by refilling the coffee machine, then make my way to the dragon tree, brushing off dust like I would with a real plant—though there’s rarely any. The artificial surface has a special coating that wipes clean with ease. One morning last week, I spilled coffee on the pot in a rush and thought it would stain. But a quick wipe with a damp cloth left no trace. So much easier than dealing with real plants.
Evenings are the most magical. The setting sun shines through the western window, dyeing the leaves a golden red. I often sit in the armchair under the floor lamp to read, the warm light mixing with the last rays of the sun. The varying greens glow like flickering flames, beautiful yet calm. One night, Mark came home late from work and, seeing the silhouette of the plant in the moonlight, softly asked, “When did you move the dragon tree to a brighter spot?”
Last Thursday, during a thunderstorm, lightning flashed outside while it stayed cozy indoors. I sat wrapped in a blanket on the carpet, watching raindrops slide down the window. The artificial dragon tree stood tall and bright, its leaves unmarred by moisture, never drooping like real plants on gloomy days.
Every night before bed, I check if the lights are off. And as I pass the dragon tree, I always adjust a few of the outermost leaves—not that they need adjusting. It’s just become a habit. Mark jokes that I care more about this plant than him. I laugh and reply, “At least it doesn’t complain when I forget to buy shaving cream.”
While reviewing my shopping list yesterday, it suddenly struck me that this artificial dragon tree has been with me for eight months. No fading, no warping of the leaves, and the glaze on the pot is still bright. Claire said the one she bought now sits in her entryway, and seeing that splash of green every morning even makes rushing to the subway feel better.
Maybe one weekend, I’ll pair it with a few small artificial succulents on the nearby side cabinet. Or maybe in winter, I’ll wrap a string of warm fairy lights around the ceramic pot. But no matter how things change, this artificial dragon tree will always be a familiar presence in the living room.
Now, the sun is slowly setting behind the distant hills. The last beam brushes the top leaves of the dragon tree, leaving a soft golden rim. I lift my now-cold tea, smile at that touch of green, and whisper:
“See you tomorrow.”
