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cellophanedeity · 10-20-2005, 11:56 AM

I don't know if this counts, but I wrote it in grade 12...

The dry green leaves crackle against my dry grey hands as I carry the corpse to my back garden. Remorse enters the corner of my mind. I know the dead thing in my hands was only a houseplant, but the guilt is still there.

When I had brought the fern home, the leaves were soft and tender, almost emerald. It shone with life. Every day I would enter my kitchen and greet the plant with a cheerful “Good morning!” and sometimes I could almost feel it respond. In those quiet moments, when I doused the terra cotta pot with lukewarm water, I felt at peace. By the second week of having the fern, I softly sang old Frank Sinatra songs to it. I once heard that plants grow better if you sing to them. I’m unsure of if it helped or not, but I figure it couldn’t have hurt.

For weeks I continued in the same fashion. When a friend insisted I go away with her for a week, I agreed, enlisting my daughter to trek across town each morning to water the plant. I called her twice on the trip, once to make sure that she hadn’t forgotten about the plant, and a second to make sure that the water she gave it was not too hot or cold. I know plants don’t really notice, but for some reason, it seemed to matter to me, I didn’t want anything to happen to it when I was gone. I thought of the fern each morning when I woke up to the sun streaming through the hotel window. The friend I was vacationing with wouldn’t let me check up on the plant and insisted that I was getting senile. I slept on the train ride home, and dreamt of Ol’ Blue Eyes dancing in a jungle. When I woke, I knew she must be right.

I arrived at home, and hurried to check on the fern. The leaves were still soft and emerald, but shone less. The next morning as I watered, I couldn’t remember the lyrics to anything, so only hummed a song. As days passed, I would pour the water quickly so that I could hang the laundry before the rain, or go to the grocers. As time passed, I began to forget waterings, leaving the soil to dry out for days.

Then this morning when I woke up, I remembered the fern in my windowsill. Realizing I hadn’t watered it in weeks, I feared the worst. When I got to the kitchen, I realized that it was too late. Plants generally don’t do well when you forget about them. I suppose very little does.

So now, with the dead fern in my hands, I open the back door and walk slowly to the little plot of soil in a sunny corner of the yard. I can’t bear to simply toss the plant into the mud. I pluck the dried soil from the pot, and the fern comes with it. It’s strange to see the roots of something that you’ve sung to. I dig a little hole with the toe of my show, and place the little houseplant in it’s makeshift grave. After a moment of gazing at the ground, I begin to hum. As I turn to go back inside I pause and think, “This would be a lovely place for a garden.”

10-20-2005, 11:56 AM	#5 (permalink)
cellophanedeity Heliotrope Location: A warm room	I don't know if this counts, but I wrote it in grade 12... The dry green leaves crackle against my dry grey hands as I carry the corpse to my back garden. Remorse enters the corner of my mind. I know the dead thing in my hands was only a houseplant, but the guilt is still there. When I had brought the fern home, the leaves were soft and tender, almost emerald. It shone with life. Every day I would enter my kitchen and greet the plant with a cheerful “Good morning!” and sometimes I could almost feel it respond. In those quiet moments, when I doused the terra cotta pot with lukewarm water, I felt at peace. By the second week of having the fern, I softly sang old Frank Sinatra songs to it. I once heard that plants grow better if you sing to them. I’m unsure of if it helped or not, but I figure it couldn’t have hurt. For weeks I continued in the same fashion. When a friend insisted I go away with her for a week, I agreed, enlisting my daughter to trek across town each morning to water the plant. I called her twice on the trip, once to make sure that she hadn’t forgotten about the plant, and a second to make sure that the water she gave it was not too hot or cold. I know plants don’t really notice, but for some reason, it seemed to matter to me, I didn’t want anything to happen to it when I was gone. I thought of the fern each morning when I woke up to the sun streaming through the hotel window. The friend I was vacationing with wouldn’t let me check up on the plant and insisted that I was getting senile. I slept on the train ride home, and dreamt of Ol’ Blue Eyes dancing in a jungle. When I woke, I knew she must be right. I arrived at home, and hurried to check on the fern. The leaves were still soft and emerald, but shone less. The next morning as I watered, I couldn’t remember the lyrics to anything, so only hummed a song. As days passed, I would pour the water quickly so that I could hang the laundry before the rain, or go to the grocers. As time passed, I began to forget waterings, leaving the soil to dry out for days. Then this morning when I woke up, I remembered the fern in my windowsill. Realizing I hadn’t watered it in weeks, I feared the worst. When I got to the kitchen, I realized that it was too late. Plants generally don’t do well when you forget about them. I suppose very little does. So now, with the dead fern in my hands, I open the back door and walk slowly to the little plot of soil in a sunny corner of the yard. I can’t bear to simply toss the plant into the mud. I pluck the dried soil from the pot, and the fern comes with it. It’s strange to see the roots of something that you’ve sung to. I dig a little hole with the toe of my show, and place the little houseplant in it’s makeshift grave. After a moment of gazing at the ground, I begin to hum. As I turn to go back inside I pause and think, “This would be a lovely place for a garden.”