I know this isn’t the best picture. Sorry. It’s somewhere close to 145°F outside right now and I didn’t feel much like standing out in the sky oven to take a nice picture.
Anyway, this is Phyllis. I don’t know why I named her, or call her “her.” Never mind me, I have a lot of quirks.
She’s a poinsettia Brian surprised me with around Christmas last year. What are you supposed to do with a poinsettia after the holidays?
If I have something that’s alive, I feel it’s my duty to keep it alive, no matter what. I once purchased a cactus from the hardware store and found a mysterious new plant growing in the pot a few days later. Not wanting to kill it, I transplanted the possible weed into a pot of its own. It grew into a beautiful purple basil plant. So, look at that, a story that doesn’t really belong. Who’d a thunk?
Phyllis is thriving, sprouting new green bunches every time I look at her. I have to think it’s the encouraging way I talk to her every day, telling her how pretty she is. Some might argue that it’s the water I continue to provide for her but some aren’t telling this story.
Right now she’s still in her original plastic pot, set inside a Pyrex bowl. She’s sitting on our kitchen table, which is actually an old pianoforte, converted to a desk/table with a nice amount of storage inside. It’s not in the best condition, having traveled in the open bed of the truck from Iowa to Connecticut, as it rained, but I’d rather not make it worse by dumping water all over it every three days.
We’ve been searching all over for a new container for her, so we can once again store our leftovers, and she can grow to the size of a small bush. No one around here seems to have pots between the size she’s in now and the size of a small car. If I had any sort of reader base I’d let you pick the pot, but as I’m pretty sure I’m talking to myself here, it looks like it’s up to me.
Do or Don’t
by All My Pretty Ones