Now, don't say anything. Just let me get through this.
You knew going into this what kind of person I was. You knew all about my history with houseplants. Full disclosure, that's what I believe in. I told you I expected a plant to be able to take care of itself, to find its damn own water, out there, in the ground, falling from the sky, whatever. And I expect a plant to fight off its own pests. Or not. Get eaten by bugs if that's what you like to do, I said. Makes no difference to me. Just don't expect me to fight your battles or come to your rescue. I'm not a rescuer. I'm not a nurturer. I've got problems of my own, I can't get involved with yours.
That's what I said.
And yet I let you move in. People told me not to–people who knew me, people who knew what I was capable of and what I was not capable of. I didn't listen to them, and neither did you. We both knew full well what we were getting into, is my point.
I tried, at first. You can't say I didn't try. I made a place for you, right there, in my sunniest, south-facing window. I spent a whole afternoon outside with you, turning over every leaf, checking every branch, crushing scale and flicking away aphids. I read the directions–me! reading directions!–and repotted you according to a set of very strange and, let's admit, not particulary clear instructions about your precise potting soil needs.
I bought a moisture meter. God help me, I bought a moisture meter.
All of this I did for you. I did more for you, honestly, in this last month than I've ever done for all my other houseplants combined. And still you're not happy.
I just don't know how much longer this can go on. I've written to the nursery you came from–now, don't be mad, I don't like to involve other people in my private affairs either, but something had to be done–and they have said to repot you in a smaller pot and take away your fertilizer. That's all that can be done at this point. Even then, our future is uncertain.
Or should I say–your future is uncertain. Because like I told you in the beginning: if it comes down to a choice between me or you–well. You know how that's going to turn out. I was fine before you came along, I'll be fine again without you.
I don't expect you to understand. You're a plant, after all, and well–let's face it–you're half-dead. This may be the end of you. I'm going to do this one last thing for you, and if it doesn't work out, we're done. I mean it this time.Posted by Garden Rant on January 5, 2011 at 5:47 am, in the category It's the Plants, Darling.