I’ve never had a green thumb. Any indoor plant — and most outdoor plants — I ever had took one look at me and promptly expired, so a few months ago when a friend gifted me with a plant she’d grown from her mother’s purple passion plant, I accepted with an outward smile and an inward groan.
Luckily, she said it wouldn’t hurt her feelings if the plant didn’t make it, which made me feel a whole lot better. And also, luckily, the plant isn’t picky about being watered — once a week or thereabouts is all it needs.
Despite my benign neglect, the plant seems to like it here. It’s in front of southern window with a light curtain that I mostly keep closed, so the purple passion plant gets plenty of diffused sunlight.
Surprisingly, not only has the plant thrived, but whenever it gets too tall and stringy, I lop of the top of the plant and stick it in the pot, and that bit thrives, too. Because of this, it doesn’t have nature’s symmetry but a rather wild appearance.
But it’s alive, and that’s what counts. Or at least, I think it is.
My latest novel Bob, The Right Hand of God is now published!
What if God decided to re-create the world and turn it into a galactic theme park for galactic tourists? What then?