AnxieTree- Fake Plastic Trees

A few years ago, I wrote this right before I broke up with my then boyfriend…

He got me a plant. Which makes sense, because he is a plant person. He has dozens of plants in his home. Some are even hybrid creations, new mixtures of plants he created and named. His own little plant progeny. He talks to his plants, pollinates, and babies them. He knows each one: where he got it, how long he’s had it, its lineage, and its name. I admire that about him. I admire his knowledge and skill. I admire his passion and enthusiasm. He is a plant person and I like that about him.

This plant, the one he got me, it’s called a Money Tree. Though there is a scientific name he used as well, I just can’t seem to remember what it is. He showed me his phone, on it a picture of the Money Tree, and asked me if I liked it. I said yes… because I didn’t realize he was being a matchmaker. Truth be told, I didn’t look at the picture on his phone very intently and might not even have had my glasses on.

We’re new, he and I. Though, I do believe that I’ve mentioned to him my black thumb. I believe I’ve mentioned how I only have two living plants and two dead plants residing in my home. All others are fake. The two living plants are an anomaly and one is a succulent, so does it really even count? The other is obstinate and though I forget its existence and randomly remember to water it, it refuses to die. It sits there, a little limp, but forgiving. I thought I made it clear that my home is where plants come to die… unless, like my BDSM plant, it gets off on my neglect.

He was so happy when he told me that he’d found me a free plant. A free plant, found on an internet plant swapping site! A free plant! For me. He went out of his way to arrange to get it. I could have said no, I know I could have said no. However, I felt like I’d been saying no a lot recently. Internally I felt like I’d met my saying,”No thank you!”, quota. Is there such a thing? In my brain there is. No thank you, don’t pick up food… I’m not hungry. No thank you, for this or that or this or that. When he told me about the plant, he was so happy with himself. And I felt all of my no thank you’s echo and reverberate in my brain. He’s trying to be nice. He’s giving. So, I smiled and said thank you….even though I really wanted to say NO thank you.

Now the plant sits on my kitchen window sill. And even though I see it every day, I forget to water it. When I do water it, I wish it were fake…. It feels like pressure. Also sitting on the window sill are my two dead cacti. Reminders of what I’m capable of. Or, to be more accurate, what I’m not capable of.

I look at the plant and it doesn’t look back. It doesn’t see me. Does he? Is this what he believes I’m capable of? Or, is this who he wants me to be? Is this encouragement? Or, is he trying to create a hybrid-me? I look at the plant and wonder who I want to be. Am I okay with being a plant killer, with a preference for plastic pedals and leaves? Ironically, a new plant sits next to the Money Tree. Every year, I purchase a Basil plant from Trader Joes and play this little game of “How Long Can I Keep it Alive ?!” Meanwhile, I use the leaves in my pasta. I’ve never kept one alive for more than a few months. Because, my home is where plants come to die.

I stare at the plant and notice some brown edges on a few of the leaves. Were those there when it arrived? Are those there because of me? Has the process begun? I water it, buying myself more time. Unless of course I’m over watering it, then I’m just expediting the process. What will happen if it dies? Will he be upset? Does it mean I am not trying hard enough? I look at the brown spots and they look like pressure. I look at the brown spots and I feel tired. I look at the brown spots and wonder who I am? What does it say about me that I have a black thumb? Is having a black thumb a bad thing? What does it say about me that my black thumb doesn’t bother me? That I’ve learned to embrace metal flowers and plastic greenery? That I find art in the unliving existence of a lifeless faux plant?

I look at the plant and it occurs to me that maybe I’ve got it all wrong? What if the plant is symbolic of his being around? Like his toothbrush, sitting on my bathroom counter? Or his possessing one of my house keys? What if he thinks that he will be the one to keep it alive? I look at the plant and suddenly I feel claustrophobic. Though I am breathing just fine, something in my brain is struggling for breath. This feels too fast. I’m not ready to merge yet. I’m not ready to co-raise a plant.

I stare at the plant, and god help me, I can’t stop thinking:

“He got me a plant. And now, I may have to break up with him.”