21 of 391

Write now Article Tools

Page 2 of 2

take it! Is it me?"

"I don't know why the tree won't grow," she said, as though speaking to a man standing on a building ledge.

"His name is Roald!" I snapped.

"Plants are like animals," my wife said. "They're attuned to the vibes of the people around them. You're so worked up about the tree- about Roald, that you might be strangling it with your expectations."

It seemed impossible. Our sod had taken so well, my wife's flowers were coming in beautifully and the plenitude of weeds I picked were an utter mockery of Roald's blight.

After a few shock treatments with Miracle Grow, I decided a radical transplant was necessary, and replanted Roald a good ten feet away from his original location.

"Come on, man," I said to him one Saturday when it appeared he wasn't doing any better in his new location, "you look like me on my first day of high school - scrawny, stunted, rickets-ravaged." I wouldn't normally speak in such negative terms, but I recalled how motivating an old basketball coach's insults had once been.

I tried Roald in a third location. Nothing. Was I some kind of anti-diviner, able to pinpoint the few fallow spots in my otherwise generously fertile property?

After the fourth transplant, I stopped eating. I lost interest in my work, and while driving I listened to the all-weather station on the radio, rather than music. The only water I drank or used to make coffee and iced tea came from the garden hose, so I could see if it was the life-sapping culprit. It was not.

As autumn approached, I could no longer look at Roald. When I wasn't at work, I slept. After calling in sick one day, I sat in my robe in the living room, reliving the day I first picked out Roald and how naturally his name had come to mind; thinking about the plans I'd made, the dreams I'd dreamed; our first nights together in the front yard, beneath the stars.

When my wife came home from work, I figured we'd put off the inevitable long enough: it was time to dig up Roald and set him out front with the trash. I was about to say this when my wife entered the living room carrying a bag.

"You need to let go of Roald," she said, seeming to read my mind. "It's time to get back to basics."

From the bag she produced a Venus Flytrap plant and handed it to me. It was the same, strange Muppet-green plant I recalled from my youth. My wife pulled something else from the bag - a package of bologna.

"I've taken care of the tree," she said.

"Yes?" I looked at her. "Thank you."

"Of course." She turned to leave me alone with my plant, but I called her back.

I said, "Would it be OK if I ate some of this bologna, too?"

Learn more about this author, Matt St. Amand.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

• << previous page
• 1
• 2

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: My great, true, personal garden story?
We want to hear your view. Write now!