The plant that would not die

An unfortunate mistake was made during our Secret Santa gift exchange at work, in which I was given a poinsettia by someone who, obviously, was not aware of my inability to keep plants alive. Unfortunately, there is no national Registry of Individuals with Plant-Killing Tendencies, which would alert concerned citizens to those in their midst who, under no circumstances, are to be trusted with the welfare of a potted item, unless it is plastic. It is up to these individuals to know this weakness in themselves, and to admit it honestly to others, such as hinting, in some manner, their likes and dislikes on their Secret Santa list: I love to torture and kill hapless plants.

I failed to do this, and ended up, as I said, in possession of a beautiful poinsettia.

Knowing my problem, I tried to get intervention before the plant even left the office. I put it in plain sight in my work space and promptly forgot about it. By the second day, it looked like something recently released from a prison camp. It was crying out for help. I was crying out for help. It was hard to tell which of us was crying out for help more.

A few concerned co-workers, bless their souls, did try to intervene on the plant's behalf. "It needs water," they said in a helpful manner. After 12 people attempted to be helpful, I removed the plant to a less prominent position in my cubicle and put a sign on it: THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN. YES, I HAVE RECEIVED WATER RECENTLY.

But no one seemed to recognize the enormity of the crisis, although there were whispers of doubt. "Do you think she's fit to take care of it?" "What will happen to it when she takes it home?" "Maybe we should call in Plant Social Services." They all seemed unwilling to become too involved, and in the end, no one tried to stop me when I finally took the plant home.

Once home, I tried to get help again. While we were away over Christmas, I delivered the poinsettia into the care of a neighbor, figuring that it would get the attention it needed there. I also figured that if it died, at least it would not be my fault.

But the poinsettia flourished there, and was returned to me healthy and whole. I heard a faint whimper escape from it when I brought it home.

Slowly, inexorably, the plant started departing this earthly life. The edges of the leaves turned black. I would come home from work to find the floor littered with wilted leaves. I was helpless to stop its demise. I had to obey the voices in my head that kept crying WATER THE PLANT. And so I watered it. Once a day. Twice a day. I lost count.

And then the voices told me to STOP WATERING THE PLANT. I stopped watering the plant. One day. Two days. I lost count.

Finally, with the poinsettia just a shadow of its former glorious self, the end seemed near. I was almost relieved. My anxiety over all those voices in my head, and the guilt over taking an innocent plant's life, would soon be over.

When there were just a few leaves left, I was ready to take it off life support and declare it deceased. But just as I was about to throw it away, I noticed that there were new leaves growing. New red leaves! New green leaves! I moaned. I couldn't throw it away now!

Despite my best attempts to destroy it, the poinsettia remains, a monument to the hardy plant spirit. Either that, or it just got lucky.