I just can’t seem to stop buying plants.
This accounting doesn’t even include the outdoor plants and shrubs I bought earlier this year for my backyard, which for the past decade-plus that I’ve lived here has been what I’ve fondly described as a dirt pit, neglected beyond a couple of ornamental bushes I planted the year I moved in and then promptly ignored; a sad hydrangea almost as dead as the dog it was meant to commemorate; a few lilies that I really don’t like; and some struggling hostas that I planted in 2019 in a rare moment of...
ore the pandemic hit were already not faring well, dropping leaves and drooping due to either a combination of too little water or too much, or a similar problem with sunlight.
Why did I do this to myself? I guess I’m just as susceptible as anyone else to the need to care for, touch, and yes, worry about and at times even resent, other living, growing, breathing things. I miss feeding my friends; I miss being annoyed at my sister for some inconsequential dumb thing that she’s done; I miss it all. So now, instead, I have plants.
seanpius this you?