plants and songs

At 32, I’ve been spending more time buying and caring for plants. I’ve got 30+ or so scattered around my house now, and I’ll probably grab more as these start to die or wilt or move on to the next cycle of their lives. I started out of simple practicality: here, the light floods in, blanketing everything in a bright, full light for hours throughout the day. My backyard has plenty of space too: an empty planter box, several empty pots, and flower beds ripe for experimentation. It also helps me slow down and focus on a simpler pace of life or gives me a routine that helps ground me.

A lot of the plants I’ve grown have died. The saddest of which was a beautiful fern I had throughout most of my twenties. It was struck down by a sudden freeze when I forgot to bring it in from the porch. But a lot of things have thrived too; a beautiful paper flower bush, a sprawling periwinkle that grew from a single stalk, monsterras, Chinese evergreen, corn plants, snake plants with tall and sturdy leaves, Zz plants, drooping daisies I’m trying not to kill, seasonal mums, jade, a milk tree basking in the sun.

I guess, metaphorically, I want to grow something of my own. I want something strong with thick roots that bury and spread themselves deep into the soil, refusing to move, taking up space. One thing I’ve learned is how much maintenance is necessary for growth. How you need to deadhead flowers to let new ones bloom, or how you must trim the parts of plants that died long ago to ensure the sturdy ones survive. To thrive takes more than water and sun, but I’m sure that’s obvious.

In the afternoons, free from work, I chart the city streets, seeking you out. I am meticulous about it: mapping each walk I take, tracing my path in thick red lines as I criss-cross the grid in a slow but steady pattern. This is madness, I understand that, but still, I am certain of our eventual reunion. Under the harsh glare of the summer sun, sweat pouring from my forehead, body stiff and aching, I make daily progress, keeping my eyes peeled for any sight of you.

At night, I return to my post behind the bar, anticipating your return, knowing you won’t. Nobody ever returns after their fates have been changed. The nature of my business is that it is a one-time ordeal; no repeat customers. But there is always a steady stream of bodies looking for something new.

My side gig was hard, but I set my own prices: fifty for a basic reading, seventy-five for any prophecy, and one hundred or more for any meddling–the price scaled based on what I was working with. If I worked fast, I could see a dozen men or more in a night. I saw all types of men: short men with flabby stomachs and balding heads, old men with wrinkled faces, young men with rosy cheeks who ordered beer with sheepish, panicked eyes. I watched hulking men with biceps the size of baseballs reduced to mounds of whimpering tears and rail-thin men who could blow away with the wind, accept their dark futures without a single sniffle. 

Men, I found, could not be reduced to a simple stereotype. Undressed and bare against the dark, each one contained a string of vulnerability. With practice, I could pluck it from them, drawing out the long ribbon of trauma or disdain, self-hatred, or denial that lay coiled deep in the caverns of their muscles for safe-keeping.