THE PLANT

The most beautiful thing in my garden and life was the plant with its big leaves, gorgeous flowers and deep evening scent. Unfortunately, the plant was dying.

“Can I take a cutting?” Dana my colleague asked, “I think I can save it.”
I frowned; “If you can handle it.”
“Course I can! I’m an excellent gardener,” she said with a smug smile.
I didn’t reply, but I should have.

Dana arrived at work in the cafe after her holiday, there was a skip in her walk and she sang softly as she made tea. I recognised the symptoms; plant happiness - the thing must be thriving in her garden. I didn’t raise the subject, I didn’t want to know. The plant had completely died on me and there was a gap where it had been that I hadn’t got round to filling.

Two weeks later, the boss took me aside; “Dana can’t concentrate. She comes in late, leaves early. What’s going on?”

How could I tell them how demanding the plant could be? Dana walked past, her expression distant, there was a plant leaf on her sleeve; she saw me and brushed it hastily out of sight. I rolled my eyes. Maybe she thought I was jealous because the plant hadn’t survived under my care. She had no idea.

When Dana called in sick and hadn’t returned after a week, I phoned and got no response. There was no answer when I visited, but her front door was unlocked. What if...? I told myself it couldn’t happen, Dana was a good gardener. I found the house neglected though, days’ worth of dishes in the kitchen, dust everywhere and un-vacuumed carpets. My worst fears were confirmed in the garden. The plant had spread over her borders, lawn, and patio and was pressed against her back door. All other shrubs were dead, choked by domination, deprived of light. The scent of flowers was overwhelming.

I walked into the tangled jungle the plant had made. Where it was at its thickest Dana was suspended in branches, wrapped in leafy tendrils that completely covered her body rendering her immobile, only her closed eyes were visible. She was unable to speak, because there were stems bound tightly round her mouth. As I approached, the plant possessively tightened its grip on her, a warning, I stopped.

This was my fault. You see, I should have warned her that she wouldn’t be able to handle the plant. The reason it had died on me was that I’d kept it in its place, hadn’t let it spread and rule. Dana had failed to control it. A vine wrapped itself gently round my waist, a gesture of recognition and friendship. After all, the origin of the plant was a cutting from my garden; it wanted me to accept things and stay. Like I’d fall for that! I reached into my bag. The plant knew me of old, did it really think I’d come into its presence without a pair of secateurs and plenty of weed killer?