Warning: The following contains graphic images. If you really, really, really love your plants, refrain from viewing.
You were beautiful and caught my eye immediately. I had been searching for the perfect match for a long time. I knew what I wanted and you delivered. It was love at first sight. You seemed so vibrant, so perky, in the full bloom of youth. I knew you were the one for me.
Convinced that you and I had a future together, I reached into my wallet and paid $22 for the privilege of taking you home.
Love for sale.
Day One: I hung you on the porch and gave you a drink. “Hydrate, hydrate” said the garden-shop clerk. And then I smiled as I watched you, in all your glory, through my kitchen window. We were off to such a promising start.
Day Two: “Hydrate, hydrate.” You were still upturned and thirsty (or so I thought) so I took my yellow watering can and sprinkled some more.
Day Three: You and I obviously missed the cues. Suddenly, oh so suddenly, you went limp. You were sagging more than I. How could one so young and lively turn into such a sad spectacle?
Day Four: Is there such a thing as CPR for a plant? Or Viagra?
Where did I go wrong? I’m sorry. Plant abuse. May I plead ignorance and lack of a green thumb? My yellow watering can, the probable culprit, has been banished to the far corner of the porch. Perhaps you like your summer hot and dry. Some like it hot.
Is there any hope of re-kindling our affair? Lift a leaf. Send me a sign.
Come back. I miss you.