The leaves stretch towards the window, yearning for the sun, their backs exposed to the dark. I turn the plant backwards, encouraging the plant to grow evenly, and so its back can be free of its fear of the dark.
I pressed my finger into the soil, but instead of a sponginess, my fingertip burrows into loose chunks. I retrieve the watering can, and let the water run to room temp before filling the can. I hum Christmas songs to my plants while I prepare to water them, relaxing them. They respond best to Christmas music, no matter the time of year. My plants were festive and flourished with regular singing sessions. Wassail, wassail, I sang.
I touched the leaves of my plants, noticing how they were limp, barely holding themselves up. “I’m sorry, my darlings that it took so long!” The leaves would seem to perk up a little with just a talking to. I began to slowly pour water into the parched soil. Underneath the dripping of the water, I swore I could hear them sigh with relief. I was sure if I gave them a few hours, they’d perk right back up.
I retrieved a soft cloth, my thumb running over the microfibers. Gently I wiped the dust from the leaves, and I was greeted with the soft perfume that was like fresh cut grass from a distance. It made me crave something cool on my tongue, something sweet and refreshing. Maybe cucumber water. The towel squeaked lightly along the waxy leaves.
I continued to sing, Noel, Noel. The plants seemed to rev up with a palpable energy, life bursting from them as they drank and they listened. They breathed me, and I breathed them.