When someone asks about my hobby, I say plants. They don’t get it, thinking I am trying to sound cool or deep. When I meet curious people, which is rare, they inquire about what exactly I do with plants. If I like to collect special kinds of plants or if I like to connect with nature.
They get confused when I say that it doesn’t matter what type of plants they are, all that matters is that I water them.
My hobby is watering plants, a large amount of plants. Watching them grow and die. There is always that one thing that others don’t get about your character and I think this is my thing.
It is a healing process to follow and be part of the life cycle of plants. I buy a plant and decide which person I want to be to fit this plant in its life cycle. Last year when I bought sunflowers; I decided to go bohemian and I rented a caravan for a couple of months.
I acquire new habits as the plants grow; planting mint requires waking up early and fresh while planting parsley means that I have to be vegan for a while.
When my plants bloom, I bloom.
I use some of them to create new food recipes and share the food with strangers. Sometimes; I make lotions and perfumes out of them. I take others for long walks under the sun and plant some others in public gardens.
Last winter; I met a guy, fell in love, and watered his heart instead of watering my plants. It was a warm winter. I am not sure what character I chose to be back then, but I know it felt like the right character for that season of my life.
We passed nighttime, woke up early and felt right. We spent days working on our food recipes and perfecting them. We went for long walks. By day we went on picnics carrying jars filled with our homemade jams, and by night we gazed at every star the sky had to offer. We went to movies and orchestras; you can’t take your plants to the theater so I never went before.
We bloomed… and I bloomed.
The sunshine kissed my skin every morning with soft lips and warm promises. Botany is less complicated than a human’s heart. The sky had witnessed my vain attempts of rooting myself in a soil that refused me until my roots dried and my own cycle ended.
But now that it is summer, I don’t know how to water my world again.
In my family’s house; I grew up with mom’s chronic depression, grandmother’s superstitions and dad’s absence.
My mom was a victim of a black monster that lived in the bags under her eyes, in her dry brittle hair, split ends, and her bed where she spent most of her days.
It was my first encounter with monsters that can’t be seen and my mom’s ways of easing my confusion was patting me on the back with trembling hands and telling me that soon dad shall come back from war and never leave again. Her words that mismatched her appearance used to confuse me more and so I resorted to my grandmother.
Grandma used to fill my head with fairy tales and mysteries that kept me distracted enough from real-life stories. I call her superstitious because her stories were more than stories; she seemed to believe in them.
She would never go out of the house if she saw a crow in our garden, if I spilled milk on the floor she would insist on washing it with vinegar then throw the washing cloth in the garbage. Some nights I used to dream of dad and when I would go to her room crying she would scold me for scaring his spirit away because he would’ve had entered her dream after mine was done.
She lived with so much belief that it made not believing in the paranormal harder and harder every day. There were a lot of incidents in my childhood that I never found a rational explanation for. So, I delved into books of magic, palmistry, astronomy. Whatever is supernatural. It became my goal to understand what is hard to understand. I started to see things, sense them and feel their existence. That was enough for me.
Last winter I witnessed a supernatural phenomenon in the shape of a human. It got me so close to understanding the definition of magic.
I didn’t believe the planets had such a fate for me. She was bigger than the universe. Talked like she had the powers of the world in the palm of her hand. Her palm was the only palm I needed to read.
We gazed at the stars with new eyes, or I guess the stars watched us in awe. Her love felt like being the center of the universe where no laws apply except for those she creates.
Some days we would wake up early and the sun would start rotating with the opening of her eyes and the warmth of her lips. I always talked to ghosts but they never listened; but when she did, the world made sense.
With her, I discovered a planet where life is possible regardless of water and oxygen. I prayed for the gods of love to make me immortal but no sacrifices were enough. Instead, I was cursed with a life surveilled by ghosts and blue pale skies.