Black Thumb

It started with the monstera. There were three of them. They had big leaves of lush waxy green and stood two feet tall. I spent a long time in the garden section of Bunning’s inspecting the plants. Looking intently at leaves and stems and soil, as if I had any fucking clue what I was looking at. To say I was a novice plant owner would be stretching the truth a little too far. I was just a city dweller with dreams of an apartment of aesthetically pleasing greenery. I had visions of living in an Architectural Digest magazine, or at least one of those Instagram accounts I followed.

A much happier plant than any I ever owned

It was the height of the pandemic and it seemed like everyone was learning one new skill or another, taking up a hobby or two. And so, I decided to waste my meager pennies on plants. I did some vague Google-ing and went to Bunning’s to blow an afternoon in the plant section. I did this once a week for two months, as the plants seemed intent on dying at an astounding rate.

Was it the cats digging up their roots? Or the fact that my apartment gets almost no sunlight? Could it be that I am lazy and couldn’t be bothered learning how to care for them?

I think it is more likely that they were duds, defective upon arrival.

The monstera lasted longer than many of the other plants. I got the monstera home, transferred them into ceramic pots and left them to die in the cold filtered light of my apartment. It was a cruel fate.

After a few months they began to wilt. Leaves turned yellow and dropped away, new leaves were tiny in comparison, and never seemed to fully unfurl. They even got gnats. I sprayed them with lemon juice, and consulted greener thumbed friends on how to nurse them back to health, or at least a little further from death. One of these friends is a professional plant person; she has a degree and gets paid to keep plants alive. Her home is the lush green indoor forest many would kill for. She gave me lots of advice, all of it good I’m sure.

But it all seemed so, well, hard.

I had to buy more things, and repot, and touch the dirt. I hated touching the dirt. I have never liked having dirty hands, even as a child I was deeply adverse to dirt or soil of any kind. And don’t get me started on the sensory nightmare that is sand.

Instead of doing any of this I just moved the plants to the front balcony. I’m sure I reasoned that they would get more sun (they did not), or enjoy the fresh air, and at least they’d be free of the terror Nicholas (the cat) likes to inflict on them. But, the simple truth was that I didn’t want to look at them. I couldn’t face watching them die ever so slowly, fighting desperately to live while I sat idly by.

Nicholas attempting a look of innocence

It was a bummer.

And I never go out on the front balcony, so out of sight is very much out of mind. It wasn’t long before other plants joined them. And when Michael moved in, well his plants went out there too.

We jokingly refer to the balcony as a graveyard. It is a rather disheveled pot plant cemetery. Michael goes out there regularly, I’m not really sure why but I try not to get too caught up in trying to understand the male psyche – it keeps the mystery alive.

He will mention on occasion, that we should clean up the balcony. Maybe sweep up the leaves from the big trees that shade the front of the apartment that fall and collect in drifts along the railing. Maybe we could make it more appealing. Or we should at least get rid of the plants. I agree, whole-heartedly. And then we go back inside to live our lives and the dead plants remain in the undisturbed graveyard.

There are still some plants inside, which are okay. They aren't exactly flourishing, but they don’t depress me to look at them. They are safe from joining their fallen compatriots on the balcony for now. I’m sure one day, probably sooner rather than later, I will usher them all to their finally resting place on the balcony.

I’m like the grim reaper, but with more eyeliner.

There they will stay, and occasionally be visited by Michael. Maybe he’s out there paying his respect to the honored dead?

Well someone’s got to, and better him than me.

---

This piece was written sometime last year, and since then I am proud to announce that the graveyard has been cleared and it is once again a balcony. This project took approximately 2 years and 15 minutes (2 years of planning and 15 minutes to actually execute).