The Fate of the Poinsettia

Plants and I really do not get along.  I hate gardening.  I don’t root plants and give them away to my friends. Putting my hands in the soil and making things grow is not for me.  A have two children, who I did water and feed, and they grew just fine.  But I’m not in it for the plants.

For a while my neighbor, who is a wonderful and avid gardener, gave me clippings for my yard.  I think she finally realized that it’s just not happening for me and I am no longer given such gifts.  I am always so sad when someone gives me a lovely plant for a gift, because I know I will kill it. I will occasionally toss an Easter bulb out in to my front “garden,” and it survives and blooms, but that’s the end of my devotion.

My idea of natural beauty, and flowers in particular, is either a) a comfortable chair in front of a plate glass window or b) a trip to a national park, where I take pictures of the flowers and would never dream of plucking one.

Last Christmas a very dear friend gave me a poinsettia.  It was blooming when she gave it to me, and did so throughout Christmas.  I kept it on my kitchen island, occasionally moving it to the kitchen table when I needed the space, or near the sink when I periodically watered it.  Beyond all expectations, the plant continued to thrive.  I was shocked, and I little disappointed.

I thought poinsettias were only supposed to bloom at Christmas but, apparently, I was wrong. Here it is almost June and the thing keeps producing beautiful red leaves.  So, in defeat, I finally surrendered and put the plant on my window sill above my desk, with plenty of sunlight.  I figured I’d just have to keep it until next Christmas and maybe it would die then.

I looked at it today and, behold, it is dying. Poinsettias must like shade or filtered sunlight rather than full sun. The plant looks pathetic. Perhaps, with a little TLC I could revive it – put it back on the island with some water and plant food.  But alas, I am taking this as a sign from heaven that this plant is ready to meet its maker, and who am I to stand in its way?  Hasta la vista little poinsettia; you were always fated to die at my hands, and now you have.