My last living houseplant is no more. I had noticed its increasingly dropping state for a couple of weeks, but knowing my talent with ailing plants I figured I’d best leave it be. The odds of its survival were higher that way.
But alas, any care, or lack of it was not enough to save the poor African Violet that had graced my window since I moved into this house. This plant holds the record for longevity under my care, having lasted over six years. Most plants last about six weeks.
I don’t know why the good Lord deemed it best to grant me thumbs that are black, but that is what I have, at least when it comes to house plants. For some reasons their fate is sealed upon crossing my threshold. My ex couldn’t understand why I could kill the hard to kill plants so easily. I just could never get it across to him that I was cursed with the Philodendron Death Touch. I can imagine leaves and stems quivering in fear as I lovingly tried to care for them, all while blissfully spelling their doom.
Somehow my African Violet was immune to the curse. I had brought it down from NC when we moved here and I had even managed to pot an offspring into another pot. The two plants sat cheerfully on my kitchen windowsill, basking the morning sun and being quite content under my awful care. When one bloomed, the other lay dormant, so I always had pretty purple flowers year round.
About six weeks ago, I walked into the kitchen and found the younger African violet laying upside down in my kitchen sink, minus its pot and all related dirt. I immediately knew the cause. The two youngest members of the FFA had been housefly hunting the night before. As per their usual methodology, Rajah and his mini-me, Miko alternated between stalking and tearing through the house on their quest to vanquish the housefly stupid enough to enter a dwelling with four cats. I never saw what eventually happened to the fly, most likely digestion, but there was collateral damage. There usually is with those guys.
The remaining plant seemed to be just fine, but I noticed a slow but persistent loss of, well for lack of a better word, perkiness in violet’s appearance. Something seemed off. So I watered it, knowing full well that it is a task I often forget completely about for weeks and weeks. Still things didn’t look right. Then today I noticed that the dirt looked a little low. Figuring some fresh soil,or even a repot would benefit my plant, I picked the pot off the window sill. That movement, gentle as it was, proved to much for the poor plant, and it toppled right out of the pot. Either my attempts to help it along had done something, or the hunting antics of the feline hellions had weakened the plant stem so that it was no longer getting enough nutrients. Whomever was the real culprit in the demise of poor violet will never be known.
My window sill looks rather empty now. I wonder if I should go buy a new plant? I can already imagine the fearful quivering.