{The Problem}: Conversations with My Houseplant

“Well, there’s your problem.”

The salesman looks at me with pity in his eyes. The problem is that I’m not getting Charles enough sun. Charles, being my plant. My plant, which is somehow wilting but also growing new leaves while others yellow and shrivel.

Last week, he said my problem was that I was overwatering the plant. The week before, he said that I wasn’t giving the plant enough water.

So I am taking this new “not enough sunlight” intel with a grain of salt.

As I walk back to my car and put Charles on the floor of the back seat, I find myself wishing that the plant would just tell me what it needs.

When we get home, I put him on the windowsill in my kitchen. It’s not his usual spot, but it’s midday and that window gets a lot of afternoon light. I put my bag down in my room and fish my phone out, flopping onto my bed and scrolling mindlessly through social media until my mind is so empty that I fall asleep.

“Charlotte,” a voice calls.

I open my eyes and sit up on my bed.

“Charlotte!” it calls again.

I get up and walk toward it, wondering who is in my apartment.

“Charlotte!”

The voice is coming from my kitchen.

“I’m thirsty.”

“What?” I ask, turning to the refrigerator.

“Can you help a guy out?”

“Sure, of course,” I say, opening the refrigerator to retrieve the Brita. I mindlessly pull a glass down from the cabinet and start to pour.

“No need to be so formal,” he says.

“Right, right.” I say, abandoning the glass and bringing the pitcher to the windowsill.

“Yeah, that’s right. Just dump it right in there. I’ll tell you when,” Charles says.

I pour for a good 15 seconds before he tells me to stop.

“Thanks Char,” he says. “I think I’ll take a little cat nap.”

I laugh. “Okay, Charles.” I fluff up his leaves and put the Brita back in the fridge.

And then I wake up with a start.

What the fuck. 

I look around the room. I feel the bed beneath me.

Sitting up, I shake my head. I stand and then pause. I’m unsettled by my dream, almost afraid to leave my room. I shake my head again.

You’re insane. 

I walk out of my room and into the kitchen, opening the fridge to retrieve the Brita, pulling a glass out of the cabinet. I start to pour myself some water and then look over at Charles. I laugh at myself.

What a silly dream! 

But then I look down at the Brita in my hand and back at Charles and wonder, what’s the harm?

I pour some water directly into Charles’s pot, letting it soak into the soil. I fluff up his leaves and put the Brita away. Phone and water glass in hand, I trot into the living room and plop down on the couch, ready to binge watch that new Netflix show everyone is talking about after my energizing, afternoon nap.

—————-

The next morning, as I wait for my coffee to brew, I turn my eyes to Charles on the windowsill. He seems to have grown taller. He is no longer drooping, but flouncing his leaves. He seems relaxed, chill. I fluff him up, smiling.

I pour my coffee with a renowned sense of self-worth. I am responsible for a living thing, and he is practically thriving! Seconds later, when the first taste of coffee hits my lips, I feel invincible.

————————-

A week later, Charles is still flourishing.

Me, not so much… I am starting to feel, well, depressed. I am finding it harder and harder to get up in the morning. I’ve always loved to cook, but lately I can barely get myself to eat. I feel physically tired all the time and emotionally wrung out.

I start watching random episodes of Spongebob. It feels like a warm blanket—my brain quiets and my heart lifts with every childish affectation from Spongebob and each sarcastic quip from Squidward.

Ever notice that when Squidward is worried about Spongebob he calls him Sponge? It fills my heart with something light and bubbly.

One night, I fall asleep on the couch watching the episode where Spongebob bravely declares, “I’m ugly, and I’m proud!”

“Charlotte,” a voice calls.

I open my eyes and sit up.

“Charlotte!” It calls again.

I get up and walk toward the voice, knowing this time that it’s coming from the kitchen.

“Good evening, Charles,” I say as I grab the Brita from the fridge. “Top up?”

“Yes please, girl.” Charles says.

I pour water into the base of his pot until one of his leaves grazes my skin, letting me know he’s had enough.

“That really hit the spot. Thanks, Char.”

“Anytime!” I say, putting the Brita back in the fridge.

“And how are you? Do you need anything?”

I hop up on the counter next to him and ponder his question.

“I’m actually not sure what I need, Charles.”

“I’d like to offer you a suggestion, if I may.”

“You may,” I say, gesturing my hand toward him, yielding the floor.

“I think what you really need is a change of scenery.”

“Go on…”

“You’ve been cooped up in this apartment with me for months. You should get out! Take a long weekend and go to the desert.”

I squint at him.

“Or the beach! Lay by a pool. Read some books. Relax. Feel yourself.”

“Hmmm that is an enticing idea. What about you, though? Will you be okay by yourself while I’m gone?”

“Oh yeah, just top me up again before you leave and I’ll be golden. Well, not literally golden, because that would mean I’d be dead, but you know, spiritually golden.”

I laugh, hopping off the counter, ready to return to my spot on the couch, “Okay. Charles.”

When I open my eyes, I’m smiling.

What a good dream. Charles is right. I need to shake things up and get out of this… I look around… cave and feel like a human being again. 

I hop off the couch and scurry into my room for my laptop. I regularly accrue loyalty points through my job for booking travel for my bosses. I’m the only person who uses this account, and while the points aren’t technically mine, I decide that since I always follow the rules and am a stellar employee, I deserve to use them. I think of it like a bonus.

I use up all of the points to book a three night stay at the Hotel Coronado in San Diego. I will lounge by the pool and lay on the beach and drink fruity cocktails and eat fish tacos and let the sun and the salt work its magic. I already feel more myself just imagining it.

I curl up on my bed and go back to sleep with the comforting knowledge that in a few weeks, I’ll be somewhere that isn’t here.

——————–

I am running around my apartment throwing things into a suitcase. Since I’m driving down to San Diego, I go a little overboard with the packing. Because why not? I have the space!

I say bye to Charles with a fluff of his leaves and then wheel my suitcase out the door.

But somehow, I forget to pack underwear.

And also, I forget to water Charles.

The first problem is stressful, but easily fixable.

The second, I don’t even know is a problem until I come back from my long weekend, tanned and relaxed, feeling like myself again and go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I’m staring out the window, filling the kettle, daydreaming about my mornings at the beach and afternoons by the pool when I notice something yellow and dingy out of the corner of my eye.

I gasp and drop the kettle into the sink, my now empty hands flying to Charles’s dead leaves.

“Well, there’s your problem,” I hear the plant shop guy say.

“You can’t take care of anyone else until you take care of yourself,” I hear my therapist say.

As I rake through Charles’s leaves, I notice one side of the plant with a few leaves that are still persevering. I smile at them, caressing them gently.

I will prune all of the dead leaves. I will start over.

I know how to take care of us now.