The trouble is, they could land me in psychiatric evaluation should anyone realize that the person or persons to whom I am speaking, flattering, soothing, cajoling, admonishing, and generally sweet-talking are green, sometimes woody, and without exception physically unable to answer me.
We talk about many things, my plant friends and I. Politics, religion, unreasonable search and seizure, European gas prices – things that might not necessarily occur to one to discuss with a plant. But why not? In these conversations I am always right and there are never any awkward pauses while everyone watches me extract my foot from my mouth.
I have finished arguments with my husband out in my little kingdom, secure in the knowledge that I cannot be answered back by a mouthy hydrangea intent on pushing my buttons. (Although I find it far more satisfying to pair that particular pleasure with the carefree brutality of pulling weeds ‑ particularly the tough ones who think they know everything.) I have chatted over things I need to work out in my head – and a few I need to work out in the heads of others. In short, it’s a therapy patch, without the steep price tag and need for a babysitter.