2/3/20 – the matchmaker

Maryann could not keep a plant alive. Their leaves turned yellow and fell, leaving shoddy patchwork on the dining room table.

“You’re probably over-watering them,” Kendra said. “Or you could be under-watering them.”

“How about this one?” Maryann stroked one rubbery, variegated leaf. “Its leaves are already yellow.” Light from the wall-sized window fell like a sword across her face, and she squinted.

The small plant shop on the corner smelled of soil and sage and grew from the jungled mind of a woman named Blue who smelled of lavender. Tall and feathery as a Norfolk Island Pine, Blue dyed her dreadlocks green, and they hung just to her shoulders. She never said, Hello; only, Greetings. Her feet were bare, always, even now, in February.

“A Croton!” Blue trilled. She carried something short and spindly in a gray pot on her hip.

“If it’s already yellow, how will you know when you’re killing it?” Kendra asked.

Blue placed the short spindly plant by the cash register. “Who is speaking of killing plants?” she called. Her feet pattered toward them over the concrete. The bell over the door jangled as it opened and closed. “Greetings!” she called to a man in a furry hat.

Closer, Maryann noted that Blue’s large toe was wrapped in a Star Wars bandaid.

“They can hear you, you know,” she said to them. She leaned over and kissed the yellow blade of the Croton. “Now, what is this talk of carnage?”

Kendra pointed toward Maryann whose hands fell at her sides.

“I don’t think I’m a plant person,” Maryann said. “I kill everything. Not on purpose. I just… I don’t know how to keep them alive.”

“Nonsense, Honey. Everyone’s a plant person.” She cocked her head to the side and studied Maryann’s face. “Come here,” she said.

Blue wrapped one hand around Maryann’s wrist and pulled her closer.

Lavender. And something else: Lemon. Cedar.

Her hands on either side of Maryann’s face, Blue’s fingertips felt warm pressed against Maryann’s cheekbones. She exhaled slowly through her nose. She repositioned her fingers, moved them farther out, closer to Maryann’s ears.

Kendra coughed awkwardly.

Blue closed her eyes.

The man in the furry hat cleared his throat at the cash register.

Maryann shifted her focus left, then right, then up, finally settling on an overgrown vine clinging to the far wall.

“Okay,” Blue said. She pulled Maryann’s right hand into her left, laced her fingers through. “Come.” She smiled broadly, and the two women followed obediently to a shelf by the front window. “Tillandsia Streptophylla: The linguine plant.”

Its leaves, slightly hairy, curled like party ribbons and spilled over the small wicker basket containing it. It boasted no flower, no bright flashes of gold or amber, no particular aroma distinctly its own. Its green did not shine.

“An air plant,” Blue said. “This is your plant.” Again, she smiled. “Soak it upside down once a week — but never at night. That’s when it likes to breathe. Otherwise, it’s exactly as it needs to be. Let it.”

Maryann pressed one finger to a pale green leaf.

“It takes care of itself, Honey.” She tipped Maryann’s chin with her fingertips. “Do you understand?”

Maryann nodded, and her eyes filled.

“I thought you might.”

Blue pressed her hands together and bowed, her face as pleased as a matchmaker’s.