I Am Guilty of Murder

But the jury is still out

There. I have finally confessed to a sin that I have tried to deny for years.

I have a long-standing history of prematurely ending the life of any plant placed in my care.

I don’t purposefully plot their demise the second one falls into my possession. They seemingly ask to be assassinated to escape my clutches.

Don’t judge me. I love plants. They just don’t seem to like me. I refuse to actively seek out a relationship with them anymore, knowing they are doomed.

Testimony of offences

I have had numerous victims over the years. My most recent was a beautiful bonsai gifted as a house-warming present. Before long, its healthy green leaves turned brown and one by one ceremoniously drooped and tumbled into a heap on the shelf.

All that was left was a bulbous bare base and a stick-like trunk.

My most spectacular failure was killing six gorgeous standard hydrangeas that were entrusted in my care when my friend moved away. They were mature, well-established plants — my balcony was the envy of the neighbourhood they were so stunning.

Until I put my poisonous paws on them.

Defence evidence

Admittedly it was a slow, progressive effort; they didn’t all die at once.

Perhaps I pruned them wrong, although I did get a personalized lesson before my friend departed. Maybe my balcony was too sunny — or not sunny enough?

I am pretty sure my kids are to blame for at least one of their deaths because they forgot to water them when I was away for a week. And one year, Spring was like a roller coaster — one minute it was +20 degrees and the next it was sub-zero. I am convinced their freshly watered roots froze and a natural death ensued.

I remember frantically racing to the garden store to replace one of them because my friend had announced she would be in town. I was mortified I had slain one of her babies and was too embarrassed to admit it.

It cost me an arm and a leg to replace the corpse; I couldn’t believe how expensive they were — which only added to my guilt.

I couldn’t keep up that lark for long though, especially when it appeared they were all intent on snuffing it. I had a graveyard of stagnant standards staring at me. Eventually, I had run out of options and had to confess to the killings.

Parole promises

Subsequently, I have not bought a plant in years. It’s best this way to prevent further mass murders. I will only buy annuals for my balcony pots in summer; the only remnant I have of those long-departed hydrangeas.

At least the lifespan of an annual is equivalent to my cultivation capabilities and avoids any gardening guilt or grievances. They serve their purpose for a year, they die — naturally — and I am not guilty of their demise.

Unless I forget to water them if mother nature doesn’t.

Resisting recidivism

How can I ever stop my killer capabilities when people keep giving me plants? My friends are oblivious to my terminator tendencies; clearly, I hide my dark side well. The bonsai is one example. Another gave me an orchid for my housewarming; in a matter of weeks, I nearly drowned the darned thing.

I am happy to report that it is still alive although it has not produced any new flowers since its near-death experience. I’m sure it is punishing me for the trauma I inflicted.

You can imagine what was going through my mind when some students thanked me with another beautiful orchid a few months ago. All I could think of was ‘ here we go again!’ I didn’t dare confess to them my tarnished relationship with plants. After all, I was a caregiver; a kind, thoughtful nurse.

Reformation results

I must’ve done something right though as not only is it still alive, it has reproduced five glorious new blooms! Maybe it was because I named her ‘Orchy’ and spoke lovingly to her each time we crossed paths? I changed the rhetoric from subconscious slayer to conscious carer, willing her to survive. My reputation needed desperate salvation.

More likely it is the religious weekly ice cubes and a prime sunny spot.

When ‘Cacky’ Cactus came into my possession a few years ago, he was a scrawny baby. My daughter re-gifted him to me. Terrified she had inherited my terminator tendencies, she decided I could quickly put him out of his misery without any guilt or responsibility on her part. After all, there is nothing worse than having two murderers in the family.

Guess what? Cacky is now a big stropping lad; 6 inches tall with prolific fingers of lush green, gentle spikes. He has survived repotting and countless attacks from my nosy cat who has either whacked or nibbled a finger or two off his plump body. He loves his sunny spot — right beside Orchy.

Is my reputation refuted? Have I been pardoned for plant persecution and escaped further sentencing for my serial slaying?

The verdict

The jury is still out, but I am leaning towards an exoneration or, at worst, plant slaughter charges.

My new green fingers are crossed.