Wither

“Hard to kill.” That’s what she’d said when she met me.

Many seasons ago, I was nestled in a pot alongside my brethren, all of us contentedly drawing up water from our recently dampened soil. She was an unremarkable human drifting past us, eyes lazily flicking over the rows of foliage surrounding her. Air rushed through my leaves as I felt myself being lifted and she read from the card wedged into my uppermost roots.

“Easy to care for, thrives in bright light, water when soil is dry.” She examined my fleshy emerald leaves that spiralled out from my stem. “You seem hard to kill, you’ll be perfect.”

~~~

We ascended three flights of stairs and entered her studio flat, my roots aching from clinging tightly to the soil during our swaying car journey.

A room with a human’s entire life crammed into it is like a pot that is being outgrown, roots pressing up against the walls and twisting back on themselves, fighting for more space.

The small kitchen jostled position with the sofa and coffee table, the bed forced into a corner nestled under a string of lights. An eclectic mix of artwork completely covered one of the walls, the frames tiling over the bare brick underneath. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, a French press sitting in a ring of brown liquid on the table, accompanied by an empty mug with a pink lip imprint on the rim.

In another corner, a stack of painted canvases leaned against a wall, the colours like summer in a wildflower meadow. A spattered sheet protected the floor under an easel, paints and brushes resting on a nearby desk, neatly ordered and awaiting their call to creation. Wedged next to the easel, a Ficus tree stood tall. I sent out a greeting, then I realised it was not alive but plastic, a morbid mimicry of the real thing.

She placed me on a table near a bright windowsill, the sunlight bathing my leaves in its nourishing glow.

~~~

There is no sunlight anymore.

We wither in the darkness together, her and I.

The curtains have been sealed shut for an age, only the sliver of a sunbeam sneaking in for a few short hours shows me the passing of time. I lean towards it, craving the energy it provides.

Now the only light in the room comes from the phone she holds close to her face and the string of lights above her head, sterile and without goodness.

She has rooted herself to her bed, barely leaving it. No noise other than her breath leaves her lips. If a human falls and only I am there to hear it, does it make a sound?

The delineation between wakefulness and sleep is blurred; she lies dreaming in the same way she lies thinking. There is a mound of clean laundry on the duvet which she burrows under instead of putting away.

When she does stir, it is like a dandelion seed carried on a gentle breeze, she floats dazedly through the stale air. She does not shower often but when she does, she stays there until the water runs cold. The pile of dirty clothes spills out of the laundry basket, cascading over the floor, so she has to step over it every time she walks to the bathroom.

There are two bin bags full to bursting tied up and abandoned on the kitchen floor. Used pans and crockery marinate in the sink, the food remnants floating in the water like algae on a pond. She does not cook anymore, only heating bland provisions from metal cans and plastic packaging. The food she eats does not seem like it has ever been alive but rather constructed piece by piece in a factory.

I wish I was propagated from a tuber or a fruit tree, so that I could provide her with sustenance, but my flesh is toxic to her.

Her brushes are in disarray on the desk, the paint covered bristles dried to a sharp point. The canvas on the easel is a half-finished calamity of crimson and shadow, she has not touched it for days other than to turn it away from her.

I wish I was the seed of a flowering plant, so that my bloom could astonish her and remind her of all that is beautiful, but I will never be anything other than dull green.

It has been eons since I have been watered. My roots delve through the desiccated soil, desperately seeking some residue of moisture. Parched from thirst, my usually glossy leaves begin to wrinkle, my weakened stem starts to bow. The need for water is unbearable. I can smell the stagnant pool in the sink, the clean spray from the shower, the salt-filled drops on her skin.

I wonder if this time I will perish.

I have lived with her now for many seasons and know her as well as I know myself. She is tortured by internal winters and must withdraw and hibernate through them to survive. Once the frost passes, she blossoms again and light returns to us both. But this winter has lasted longer than any of the others.

The allure of despair, the premature grief for the two of us threatens to wilt me. I am hard to kill but it is not impossible; I cannot suffer through these conditions forever.

Flecks of dust have fallen into the glass of water on her bedside table, it has sat untouched for days. She rolls out from under the covers and picks the glass up when she pauses, looking at me.

“Drink up, friend,” she murmurs, and tips the water onto my soil.

The ecstasy of hydration filling my capillaries is the purest form of joy I have ever experienced. The liquid flows up my dried roots, softening them. It fills my leaves so they swell with moisture. It strengthens my stem so that I may stand proudly once more.

~~~

We are the same, her and I. Our lives intertwined. We do not produce fruit or astound with our beauty but we will survive the winter.

Spring has finally come.