(This made more sense when I still had a preschooler.)

R.I.P. Plantchild

Ah, little gardenia. I’m afraid another short relationship is over. For less than a week, between when I adopted you and before you fell ill, you blessed my house with your enchanting scent. Now I realize, looking at you, that you are not the same anymore. You struggle so hard to go on, but you do not bloom and you are looking, well, quite scraggly. This sounds so cruel and blunt, but you are bringing down the general feng shui of my home. To quote, or more likely misquote Slaughter (of course this song is my current soundtrack, see other post about my unfortunate soundtracks): “Now you’ve got to fly (high) to the angels, heaven awaits your heart, and flowers bloom in your name…” That’s right, gardenia, other flowers bloom in your name, where you could not.

The last GardeniaChild I adopted was in Minnesota and I tried to keep it outdoors. It also began a slow death immediately upon adoption. I adopted this last gardenia in April after perusing a nursery. Its scent called out to me like the Sirens to Odysseus and even though the nursery staff warned me that it was difficult to care for, I chanced it. I could not say no. They said it loves indirect sunlight and humidity. I put it in the bathroom where I take scalding showers, but there was not enough light coming through the window placed at decent height. I moved it to the bedroom for better light, but the bathroom steam couldn’t reach it. I saw it getting sick, so I then decided it would stay in the bedroom for light but I would move it to the bathroom when I showered so it would receive humidity. Alas, I have failed and today I shall uproot my scraggly friend and dispose of its remains.
When I got married, I was adamant that ranunculus be part of my bridal bouquet. The florist called me a few days before the wedding to report that the ranunculus nursery (or whatever: house, field, origin?) in Holland (I believe) had burnt down. I was devastated. The florist took the liberty of ordering cabbage roses to replace the ranunculus (what is ranunculus in plural, by the way?) but they are not the same. I dislike roses, and the cabbage rose is a poor imitation. The flustered florist said that, in that case, she would just put together whatever she could. I awaited in fear to see what my bouquet would look like…and then I was so pleasantly surprised. I don’t remember a lot about what other flowers, for color, were included. I only remember the scent of the gardenia and how I couldn’t put the bouquet down and how my nose was like a magnet to it. I wanted to take the bouquet on our honeymoon. I was smitten.
Thus began my romance with the gardenia. But today I realize I may only get to see gardenias from afar in the future as the adoptions have not panned out like I planned. 😦 Fly to the angels, Plantchild.

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