Otto Quasti

I bought a plant today. If you knew me, you'd know how important this is.

I had been passing a drug store near one of my jobs with smallish potted plants sitting outside of the doors. I'd breathe in and dream about the day I could buy a plant and put it in front of my house and water it, watch it grow, talk with it. I never bought one. I could never bring myself to actually go in and buy a plant.

What was it? I don't pretend to know the full complexity of it. Fertilizer, potting, digging, watering, sun/no sun....all of it seemed like something other people did.

I went to another store today and was walking around their outdoor plant section. It's been a new habit; to look at the hanging plants and try to imagine it hanging in front of my door, picture myself bouncing off to work and sprinkling a little water on it, talking with it, showing it off to friends as it grew.

As I walked through the aisles at the hanging plants, I critiqued each and fretted about whether or not it would only bloom once and leave me with an empty pot, whether or not it would be alright in the place I pictured it, by my front door. One was too expensive, the other too small, the next uninteresting, the next too flamboyant.

I'd like to say that when I saw the Spanish Lavender pot sitting on the ground, that it reached out immediately and caught my attention. But I think I passed it several times as I walked around. I hesitate to type it too loud, in case it knows and shrivels up for lack of love.

When I finally paused long enough to consider it, I stood staring at it-- lost in the inner war I was having with myself. Am I ready?, I asked myself several times. I reached out to touch its tendrils and modest purple buds and withdrew my hand upon remembering that the sugars plants use for food are stored on the surface of their leaves and petals. Not wanting to steal precious sugars from it, I hesitated to touch it again. I stood watching it, as if willing it to grow before my eyes right there in the store, and I recalled everything I had learned about plants in Biology from High School.

Photosynthesis, sun, water, shade, potting, repotting. Of course, they didn't tell us how to pot or re-pot a plant or even how to properly put it back into that great blanket it was born in, the dirt that pulls everything down to it eventually. I recall my grandmother being an obsessive gardener. She could touch anything and it would grow. Except her daughters. Except her daughters.

I pulled the plastic tag out of the soil and looked at the back. Minimal watering, lots of sun, "splendidly fragrant". I picked it up and brought it to one of the workers and asked if I would need to put it into another pot. She said that I could put it into a pot for a short amount of time, but that eventually it would need to be planted in the ground. She said she had some that she planted and it grew like wildfire.

I smelled it and Lavender filled my nose, its potent and theraputic aroma hid an undertone of dill pickles I used to tease my mother about. She lined underwear drawers with lavender scented paper.

I paid three dollars and fifty cents and carried it out to the car where I sat it in the passenger seat next to me and took off. It leaves and buds shook with the vibration of the car as it started as if it was terrified of its new journey. On each turn, I'd steer with one hand and reach another over to steady the pot in case it spilled over, the dirt spilling out like so much blood and life.

At stoplights, I'd look at it, still trembling and timid, and I knew that talking with it may be a good idea. It makes plants grow and makes them happy (as happy as a plant can be). But for some reason, I could not form the words of reassurance and stability that I had in my head and heart. I could not say them outloud, even in the confines of my car. I wished my radio worked so I could play music for it to show her that I loved her. That each song that played had something in it for her from me.

I've decided to name her Minerva.