Last year I passed a lonely summer with nothing but the company of a molding, dormant pitcher plant that spontaneously combusted and withered at every turn.
I assumed it was dead, left it alone, flew to the Czech Republic, watched a whole bunch of puppet shows, became painfully familiar with the floor of Ruzyne Airport, authored a short story collection, tried out “green” blogging, discovered a sudden penchant for farming, completed my college education, and returned home only to discover that my plant had deceived me. It was not dead at all.
Is this some sort of joke, Pitcher Plant? After I purchased the distilled water that hydrated your discerning capillaries? After I took you out to photosynthesize on the porch almost daily? After I scrawled many a blog post detailing your progress and photographed your slowly unfurling leaf structures? Is this how you repay me, Pitcher Plant? Was this all part of your plan?
Did I suffocate you with my tenderness? Was it grief over the incineration of your terrarium mate that kept you wilted for so long? I resent you, Pitcher Plant. Someday I may find it in my heart to forgive you, but until then I will merely admit that you look really, really awesome.
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