Murder? Or Suicide?
Five long years ago, when I worked as a professional sorority girl (no, seriously, I was the associate director of finance thankyouverymuch) I was given a gift. Well, it more like a left over from our convention that summer but I tell myself it was a gift. And this gift was a violet.
Being the official flower of my organization, I have been given many violets over the years. And I’ve killed them all. As a bumbling college student, I had no idea how to take care of such a delicate plant. It was when DAd recommended watering it from the bottom. I placed my new gifted violet, still in its plastic terracotta pot, in a styrofoam bowl and watered it from the bottom. Success. My teammate then shared her secret: violet food. And let me say Miracle Grow really does perform miracles. My violet flourished.
And flourished it did. I’ve re-potted it twice. I took the time to turn its container so that it would grow gracefully. And then I moved, stuck it on a shelf and it became a monster.
This thing got HUGE. No matter how hard I tried to keep it growing straight, this bad dog bent over, sucking sunlight like an emo teen with fake fangs. It couldn’t get enough of it. My beautiful violet had a problem. I overlooked it, was in denial and told myself nothing was wrong. And then it happened.
This weekend, my bad dog of a violet was looking a little wimpy. I took her down from the shelf, gave her fresh water and food, and placed her in the window. She needed some R&R and I was making sure she got it. But the leaves didn’t bounce back like I hoped they would. It took a minute or so to realize it but it was confirmed last night: my violet was dying.
I thought for sure that I killed it. I’ve been known to slip up and murder violets in the past; never mind this one has been in my possession for five years. I scoured over the plant, lifting the sad little hairy leaves trying to figure out which dagger actually struck the jugular. And then I saw it – the missing link – the one piece of evidence that might suggest this wasn’t murder but rather violet suicide.
This blood-hungry, sun-sucking plant was so gluttonous that she broke her own spine. The weight of the leaves tipping over the top of pot slowly made the plant weak and vulnerable. And the thick stem leading to its roots had turned gooey (yes, gooey) and she easily unplugged herself in my hand. She didn’t even put up a fight. So sad. It’s tragic.
Leave it to the hubs to point out the obvious while I’m standing their holding the stem of my violet. “Yeah, well it’s definitely dead now.” Thank you, baby. I never would have been able to piece that information together without your high level insight.
Could I have prevented this? Probably. A bigger home, a larger pot could have had her saving grace. But hindsight’s 20/20. So instead of playing coulda/woulda/shoulda, I’m moving on. I had a five second funeral service over the trash can and will be holding a moment of silence this afternoon at 2p in the pod. Feel free to join me.
You might think it’s too soon, but I will be purchasing a new violet at Kroger this weekend. I need to fill the purple void as quickly as possible. Rest in peace, my hairy little plant.