To the house plant that someone gave me–it could be a mini rose bush or daisies but most likely is a pot of chrysanthemums–I’d like to apologize in advance because we know how this is going to go. You’ll sit there in your pot, looking all fresh and lovely. Your buds will be open, leaves green. I’ll check your soil, and it’ll be somewhere between damp to moist. So I probably shouldn’t water you. Yet. We know what happens with overwatering–you will turn yellow, and things will end badly.
I check the next day, and… hmm, a little dry. Do I water you yet?
I wonder. I wait. I water. Then I water the next day. Then I water the next day. Then I forget about you for two weeks. Then I notice your leaves are turning brown and falling off, buds wilting. You look so sad.
How long do I wait before I throw you in the trash?
“We’ll plant it,” Steve says casually, as if we’ve been down this road before (because this road has been well traveled).
“Oh. Huh. You think? Like, can we do that? Will it work? Can we actually take this house plant and put it in our ground and it will GROW?”
He stares at me. “Yes. That is how plants work.”
“Okay, then. Yes, we will definitely plant it.”
But we never do.
And then, after it is certain you are completely dead, I toss you in the trash, quickly shutting the lid, shoving aside thoughts of shame and failure.
This is why I can’t have nice things.