Today I sit in the quiet of the morning with the faint tap of rain on the roof and the click of my keyboard. It’s a perfect writing atmosphere. A little while ago, I heard a little whispered voice say, “I’m thirsty.” Of course, I’m all alone here, so I ignored this obvious imaginative voice. Then, a few minutes later I hear, “I’m thirsty.”
Now I’m not getting any younger and my sometimes feeble mind does play tricks [with no treats] so I got up and walked around the house thankful that no one is here to see and ask embarrassing questions. Once in the living room I hear it again, “I’m thirsty.” I couldn’t resist and with a little smile, I asked, “Who said that?”
“I did” I heard and the droopy leaves of my very large Mauna Loa plant ruffled. I started to laugh at my obvious senility. “Haven’t you noticed that it’s been raining for four straight days?” “Uh huh” I said not believing that I was talking to a plant. Although I have been known to talk to them on special occasions, this was the first time they [or so I thought] were talking to me!
“Well, um, yes I’ve noticed that it’s been raining. Is there a point to this ‘Alice in Wonderland’ conversation?” “ Well yes, you see all our brothers and sisters outside are nice and happy with all the water they want. We, because of your inept ignorance of our needs, have not given us a drop of water in more than two weeks.” “’Inept ignorance’ is pretty heady stuff for a plant, don’t you think?” “Do try not to change the subject, we’re thirsty!” And with that, all the plants began to chant, “We’re thirsty, we’re thirsty, we’re thirsty.”
Dutiful plant owner that I am, I looked around, and sure enough all the plants were dry and wilting. I indeed had not watered them in two weeks. Heeding to the supposed will of these creatures that give me the joy of flowers and the sustenance of oxygen, I brought them outside. One by one, I put each plant in the rain where they now sit ruffling their leaves in happiness. In a few hours, I’ll try to remember to bring them back in and put them on their lofty assigned perches.
Now, everybody knows that I don’t write fiction since it is equally well-known that I don’t have an imagination. But you’re asking yourself if this really happened, right? Well, hell, I don’t know. I can tell you that early this morning all my plants were dying of thirst and now they are all outside under the heavy rain. I can also tell you that their leaves are fluffing around in apparent happiness and they have already perked up in a picture of health. Who cares if it happened. The plants are happy. I’m happy. And no one was here to actually witness my obvious senility.