Plant People

Garden 3
photo by brettanicus.

I wonder how long plants live. Do they ever die of old age, or always neglect or bugs? I have had the crawly strong plant (I never know real plant names) for almost twenty years. For stretches of time I forget to water it and it collapses in its pot like a deflated tire tube, but then I’ll cut it back to crew-cut length, and water it a couple times, and it bursts back to life like a woman out of a cake. If I was to nurture the plant, properly supply nutrients and fresh soil when needed, how long would it live? Could it outlast me?

Why do I love to surround myself with things that live a long time? I get a certain kind of comfort over having a plant or a pet turtle that has been with me over a dozen years, and I know will stay with me for a dozen more. It fights off loneliness, and I feel like they are the few creatures that realy get to know me. I am a constant figurehead, as they are for me. They have truly taken the vow to stay at my side through sickness and in health, if only due to confinement or a lack of legs with which to walk away.

Does anybody out there enjoy killing plants, getting some sort of pleasure out of slowly watching them die, or even torturing them, in a sense; feeding drops of saltwater or rubbing alcohol into their soil, lacerating their tendrils, possibly even slowly chewing on leaves? Do they imagine an unheard plea for mercy or cry of pain? You know this dementia has to be in the diagnostic book of psychology, and that Phizer has come out with a prescription to treat it.

There are two kinds of people out there; those with plants, and those without. Those with plants can’t live without them; they feel suffocated without a bit of greenery around them. Even at the office they need an ivy crawling down from their cabinets. Those without plants can’t tolerate them. The thought of taking care of it exhausts them; their houses contain maybe only a silk or plastic plant covered with dust behind a sofa. If you give them a plant, they will hate you for it and will watch it with a kind of fatalism as it dies. “See, I can’t keep a plant alive,” they say, not even attempting to water it, and it goes into the garbage with a certain satisfaction.

I am a plant person. I don’t know the names of them, I don’t talk to them, and I rarely dust off their leaves, but I notice when new growth appears. I look on them with pride when I see a flower bud appear.

I’ve got to get out of the house more.