I’m certain my orchids, if able, would form a vigilante team and torment me as I have them—neglected, scorched in direct light (but, it looks so good in that spot), deprived of food because who knew you have to actually feed your plants? Or perhaps they’d love me to death with too much water—an equally efficient, but ironic demise.
In any case, I’d deserve it.
I have unwittingly tortured orchids for years.
First, I buy them at Trader Joe’s where they sell the best and most economical choices. Then, I love them to death and when they drop their flowers in protest, I swear, out loud, that next time, I’ll do better (all the while wondering what the hell they want if they don’t want to be left alone and they don’t want doting either). I berate myself and then console them with a high-pitched voice usually reserved for human babies as I walk them on a death march to the yard debris container—”I’m soooooo sorry. Next time I’ll get it right—I promise!”