She can make anything grow.
While visiting her over Thanksgiving, I marveled at the plethora of flourishing houseplants that garnish her lovely home. She has a plant that is over nine feet tall that was barely over a foot when she rescued it from a neglected corner at Home Depot three years ago.
She once nursed a dying rubber tree plant back to life and fostered four healthy feet of growth in a basement apartment while living here in dry, frigid, Logan!
We’re of the same blood, and yet the green thumb gene completely snubbed me.
I don’t have a single piece of live greenery growing in my house. In my 20 years as a homemaker I’ve never been able to keep a houseplant alive, and it’s not for a lack of trying. I’ve tried, and Tried, and TRIED— I just can’t do it!
Plants hate me.
Smug green thumbers always say stuff like, “There’s nothing to it, just give them sunlight and water,” like anyone should be able do it.
Jason kept commenting on my sister’s beautiful houseplants. He’d walk around them, touch them, and just stare at them. I think he had an affair with them while we were there.
He kept saying, “It’s so nice to have plants around the house. We should get some plants when we get home.”
He’s so optimistic, and forgetful. He forgets that we’ve had many houseplants before, they just die a slow cruel death under my hand. A bitter reminder of that met him at the windowsill when we got home and there sat three empty pots that have been there for months.
I forget what we were trying to grow in them.
Hey, at least I’ve managed to keep all my kids alive.