Plant mimetism, or a letter to my grandfather
When I think of my grandfather in the summer, I picture him as I remember him best: clad in white short sleeves, ambling around with a watering can—often just a repurposed plastic bottle—tending to the myriad plants and flowers in our garden. He performed this ritual as the sun dipped below the horizon, without any special equipment.
It took him nearly two hours. With the grace of an 80-year-old man who had survived a war, a car accident, and cancer, he would meander with that bottle, inspecting each plant as if they were communicating with him—telling him that, yes, the day had been harsh, the sun relentless, but they were okay; today's water wasn't necessary as their roots were still moist. To an outsider, this ritual might seem mundane, but through the eyes of a child who saw his grandpa as a superhero, it was nothing short of magical.
If you've read this far, you might have guessed that my grandpa is no longer with us. He passed away in 2007. Those who have lost someone close during their childhood might recognize the frustrating feeling of that person not being around to witness their achievements.
I always thought this magical ability to communicate with plants and flowers hadn't been passed down to my side of the family—my uncle, on the other hand, inherited this gift. Unfortunately he no longer is among us to ask him how it is done.
In May, we bought a white orchid from IKEA (after completely killing the first one). It was a modest orchid, and I didn't have high expectations for it. It was after I fell ill, went through a very difficult period in my life (something I'm not ready to write about yet), and all my plants had died because, well, I couldn't even take care of myself. So, we bought it without much expectation and placed it in the office, near my work-from-home desk.
I sincerely hope it wasn't some kind of marketing ploy by IKEA, because after just a few weeks, I started noticing a new flower bud growing. And then another. And another. So many that suddenly our orchid became a white explosion in the office, and I had to devise a system to prevent it from collapsing under its own weight—I'm planning to try replanting it by winter, wish me luck.
On Saturday, I was wandering around the house when I picked up my watering can. I took my scissors and, like a nurse before vaccinating a child, I told myself it was for the best—those yellow stems needed to be pruned. Then I watered it and admired the six, no, five beautiful white flowers (with more about to bloom!).
As I smiled, satisfied at the sight of such a beautiful and healthy plant, a memory from the past struck me like a chord. It's probably just a case of mimicry—a child trying to imitate an adult, just as I used to pretend to shave like my father. But even if it is just that, even if there wasn't a special superpower that allowed him and my uncle to speak with plants, I don't care. If taking care of plants makes me feel closer to them, I will plant an entire garden.