I was a novice learning about plants, and like a cuckoo chick, I was devouring every bit of a new passion growing inside me. Belén, my sister, had taken me to a garden center, where I saw a gardenia for the first time. She was gorgeous—standing like a queen in all her glory.
That gardenia’s aroma fascinated me. She pulled me toward her blindly, like a bear drawn to a honeycomb after a long hibernation. Numb from her snow-white flowers, guarded by glossy deep-green leaves, I took her into my arms without hesitation, feeling like Gollum clutching his precious.
My sister, a more experienced plant connoisseur, warned me.
“Honey, that’s way over your pay grade.”
“I’ve got money, baby,” was my instant response.
“It’s not about money, sonny,” she said. “She’s delicate, and I don’t think you know what it takes to deal with her.”
“I’ll learn,” I replied, smart-ass and confident.
I placed her on the porch, admiring her like a FIFA World Cup trophy, while the 1 p.m. Puerto Rican sun slowly—but surely—started to wither her. In the morning, fallen leaves greeted me with a middle finger. The snow-white flowers, now tinged brown, didn’t even look at me.
My immediate reaction? Pour water like I was extinguishing a forest fire. I repeated that method for more than a week, until all I had left was a leafless plant, nowhere near resembling the glorious girl I had brought home.
Days after throwing away the now-dead plant, I returned to the garden center alone. I saw a man watering some ixoras, and like a penitent confessing his sins, I told him what had happened, hoping for some enlightenment. He didn’t whip me. Instead, like a wise man, he calmly listed my mistakes one by one.
First, I had taken a plant growing under filtered sunlight, surrounded by trees, and placed it in an unmerciful midday sun. I didn’t move it to a fresher and more protected spot. Then, I watered the plant like there was no tomorrow, all while keeping it in a pot with no drainage. I was already feeling like a jackass when he explained that to me.
“A perfect setting for a gardenia is morning sun and afternoon shade,” he said. “Gardenias don’t like abrupt temperature changes—that’ll make them drop buds and leaves. It’s not that the plant can’t handle full sun; it’s that yours went through an abrupt change.”
Trying to look less like an idiot I interrupted him. I told the guy that I had watered constantly and even kept a good reserve in the pot’s plate. He tried hard not to laugh. “Buddy,” he said, “gardenias love organically rich soil that stays consistently moist—but they need excellent drainage. You put her in direct sun, surrounded by cement walls, with stagnant water literally boiling her roots.”
I went back home. I didn’t call my sister. My ego stopped me every time I tried—and this wasn’t going to be the exception. I couldn’t handle the inevitable ‘I told you so, you little piece of shit’ that I knew would come out of her mouth. My stubbornness, and the image staring back at me in the mirror, were more than enough punishment.
As sad as it is, ignorance in handling plants is one of the main reasons so many of them die—something I could have avoided, or at least minimized, if I had listened to those with more experience.
It wasn’t her who broke my heart.
It was me who broke hers—by never bothering to learn what she needed.