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andromeda2am · 4 days ago

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My father treats his plants the way he treats me (vent post/prose poem)

He gives them no time to acclimate, no time to adjust, and if a plant survives, there's no praise, no celebration, no relief, because that's what it was supposed to do anyway. If it dies, it simply wasn't strong enough, or we picked a bad one from the nursery. He cares for them, but just enough that they produce fruit. It doesn't matter how well they're doing beyond that. He only fertilizes when generations of plants in that area have withered away. The rest, the picking, and watering, the regular fertilizing and maintenance, fall to me, his eldest daughter. The daughter in college for a degree in plant sciences, whose advice he doesn't take.

He bought a hydroponic setup this year for the tomatoes. They sit against the north wall of the garage, plugged into pumps and aerators and grow lights. He fertilizes them occasionally, and checks on them every so often. This is the first time in a while his tomatoes have been satisfactory. He mows the lawn often, cutting it as close to the ground as he can manage. My mom says he does this because it thinks it will keep it shorter for longer, but in reality it just kills the grass he's spent years trying to cultivate. I make sure to place tomato cages around any bushes I plant there, until they're old enough to distinguish themselves and not get mown down as well. He weeds relentlessly. He used to use roundup and other chemical alternatives, until my mom, scared by the cancer risk, convinced him to stop. Now his method is much simpler: a propane torch, with a specially lengthened neck so the flames can reach the weeds without him straining his back even a little. I can always tell he's been burning the plants because the smell lingers for hours afterward.

If I were one of his plants, I might be be the barberry by the porch: thorny, off-colored, and beautiful, but kept mainly because they can't get rid of it. It's too deeply rooted. It's hardy, too, having survived being partially sprayed with bleach solution earlier this summer. Maybe I'd be the Freeman maple they planted for my birth: the one whose lower branches had been cut off to improve the view from the front porch, while a higher one was laden with a perpetually empty birdhouse for so long that the bark grew to engulf its chain. Perhaps I'm one of my mother's houseplants, the fiddle-leafed fig she kept inside for the winter but puts out for the summertime, because there's no space for plants in the sunny areas of the house, or possibly an orchid: something capricious that somehow still seems to survive, though without proper care, not due to negligence or malice, but simply to lack of knowledge. There's no time to research care for just one plant among dozens, especially with everything else they need to do.

I just wish that they'd appreciate the flowers as much as I do: noticing the subtle sparkle on the wax begonia's petals and leaves, getting excited that the spider plant has put out new shoots, excitedly taking pictures of the first bloom the Christmas cactus has produced since it took its place on the bathroom windowsill.

#prose poetry #i'm trying my best #constructive criticism welcome

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