I don’t water the plants.
I just don’t.
Not out of laziness or principle. It actually doesn’t occur to me to do so. I am around the plants. I’m sitting with them. I just don’t think to give them a drink.
It’s a good thing Renee is around. She remembers to do it at least some of the time.
I had a little apartment on Bloor Street for years. It was a third floor walkup, above a shoe store with a motorized display case that we called the Dancing Shoes. Whenever I gave directions to this place, I would tell the person to look for the Dancing Shoes. The owners were very nice and they were always open for business. Sundays, holidays… always. In fact, if you received scarves or gloves from me for any occasion between September 2008 and May 2011, it was because I forgot to get you a present and they were open and convenient and nice. And ultimately, I forgot.
Glad I got that off my chest.
Anyway, when I moved above Dancing Shoes I didn’t really own anything. I’d moved to Toronto with 2 suitcases and a Wonder Bra display bust that I’d found covered with dust at a Bay Roberts thrift store. Over the next couple of years in the city, I’d managed to acquire a bed from my friend Susan and a desk from the street. Everything else I bought for $300 off the young, heavily cologned Italian man who was vacating above Dancing Shoes. Everything. His couch, table and bed. His glassware, cutlery and spices. Everything in his fridge and cupboards. I even ended up with a course study manual on Business Ethics for ESL students and his towel. I had everything. Except a plant. I decided that if I was going to be a grown lady with her own apartment, that in turn it was time to get a plant.
So I bought a plant.
But I never watered it. Relatively never. At first, I did it every day, then soon it’d pop into my head once a week. A year in, maybe once a month. She survived on second hand cigarette smoke and the delicious sun from my large window that looked down on Hakim Optical. I’d talk to her sometimes, and even then, I wouldn’t think of giving her a drop. Not one thought of it.
We took care of our friends dog Misty this past weekend and she is the best dog ever. She doesn’t make a peep and loves to cuddle and is a babe magnet in the park. Misty has serious game. I took her for a walk by myself and was afraid to let her off her chain in case she wouldn’t come back. Renee assured me that she always does, but I was too afraid. I didn’t trust her. Or myself, I guess.
It baffles me that the dog would come back. Why would the dog come back? It’s too much for my brain to handle.
It baffles me that my plant survived. And that she didn’t make it to Ossington.
A bunch of stuff stayed in that little apartment above Dancing Shoes. I gave away most of the young Italian mans stuff in a failed attempt to have a Craigslist sale that turned into a desperate plea for people with large vehicles to come make the stuff disappear.
I should have taken the plant.
It baffles me why I didn’t. I have no reason. No excuse. Exactly as I don’t have a reason why I didn’t give her any water for over 2 years.
I left it all behind.
Except the Garlic Steak spice.
And to be very honest, the towel.