Honey, I Killed The Plant

Compared to the high-octane action of the school year, the summer’s more relaxing edges can almost feel boring at times. It’s a hard thing to trade all nighters for sunny, sleepy days. But I, being an organized and determined sort of summer Adult, decided to ease the boredom with a little project.

For the first time in my life, I decided that I was going to raise a child. And that child was going to be a plant.

It was just a couple of flowers named Barkley. And me, being the arrogant sort of person I am, decided that I’d survived a year of college, so this would be a piece of cake.

So much for that.

Because for shit’s sake, plants are a great deal more demanding than I thought they would be. Water? Every single freaking day. Sunlight? Has to be at the perfect freaking angle. And if you just mess up, just a little bit—the plant freaking dies.

At least if you’re raising a kid or something, they’d try to let you know if something was wrong before keeling over.

Unfortunately, the experience showed me exactly what sort of mother I’m probably going to grow up into. Because if I was in the middle of a Netflix binge and I suddenly remembered that I’d forgotten to give Barkley his water for the past two and a half days—well, I was watching Netflix, that’s not something you can just pause, okay? Particularly when it means I have to get off my bed and walk all the way to the sink for water. And if it was one of those swelteringly hot summer days in Providence, and only a tiny corner of the room was spared from the sunlight, and it all came down to whether me or Barkley got that shade—

Well, let’s just say I saved myself. Which would not bode well if I became a mother, whether it be a decision over a bit of shade or a seat on a Titanic lifeboat.

I did try my best, though. At least at the beginning. I had alarm reminders set up on my phone for Barkley’s water and everything. I even decorated his little flowerpot with chalk polka dots and a nametag. And at the end of the summer, when I realized just how much of a shit job I’d done with him, I tried to go back to that routine, in hopes of reviving some vigor into his drooping brown leaves. But, alas. He’ll only live now in bittersweet memories, my heart, and the phone reminders that I am too emotionally attached (and impressed with myself about) to delete.

But I wouldn’t begrudge myself for the two months Barkley spent in my life, even though he probably would. It really taught me something: my astounding ability to prioritize Netflix over anything and everything. And my lack of emotional maturity. Because here I am, making jokes over a dead plant. Poor, dead Barkley. He deserved better.

I kind of want to try it again next summer with one of his brethren. That might be fun. I can see if I’ve maybe gotten a bit more responsible over the length of a school year, and if the new one will last any longer.

I sincerely doubt it.

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