It was a normal Tuesday like any other. Here I was, sitting on the couch in my upstairs room, sipping a black coffee and absorbing that rare ray of Welsh sunlight spilling in through the window – when the ficus bonsai tree perched on my sill began to move.
It was subtle at first. I blinked, certain I’d imagined it.
That clarifying blip of my eyelids was the worst thing I possibly could have done. Because, no, I wasn’t going crazy. My small, knobbly tree (sporting three strong leaves on its head) stretched out its branchy arms and yawned.
“God damn, it’s hot up here,” coughed the plant.
“E-excuse me?” my voice came out like the frail squeak of an old hinge.
The plant turned to look at me. He (just assuming pronouns at this point) shook his leafy head and observed me. Ah, yes, of course. The plant had eyes. And a mouth – little gaps in the rough roots. He plucked his rooted feet from the pot, spraying dirt onto the carpet. “Woopsie.” He glanced over the edge at the mess he’d made, then back at me.
I realised I still clutched my mug in trembling hands and set it aside before it spilled. I didn’t dare get any closer to the moving (breathing!) creature – but come on! You didn’t get this sort of opportunity very often.
“Erm,” I tried. “Sorry if I haven’t watered you in a while. You were a gift from a friend and… I don’t have much of a green thumb.” I gave an apologetic shrug.
I could’ve sworn the plant rolled his eyes as he strutted along the windowsill, then planted (ha) his (arms?) on his (hips?) and stared over the back garden. “I’ve heard that one before,” he grumbled.
“You have?”
He peered over his shoulder. “Well, my fellow root buddies have. We chat now and then. Connected, you see.”
“Ah,” I said, although I didn’t see. This defied all logic in the books. I was pretty sure (pretty sure) that if plants came to life and started talking, it would’ve come up in the news.
“Can I – get you anything?” I asked, because it seemed like the polite thing to do.
The bonsai let out a long sigh and turned his attention back to the window.
“You want to go out there?” I hazarded, ever the people (plant?) pleaser.
“Nah. I’d die, wouldn’t I? I’m not native here.”
“Oh. I’m… sorry about that.”
“I shouldn’t think it’s your fault.”
What an incredibly gracious plant.
“Er…” I began.
“Yes?”
“Can I ask–”
“I assume you will.”
“Right. Well. How are you…?” I gestured to his overall-ness.
“I suspect it has to do with climate change.”
“Really?”
“No. Are all humans this gullible?”
“How do you speak English?” I burst out.
“How do you speak it?”
“I learned it.”
“Well, so did I.”
“But–”
“This isn’t productive,” the plant decided and stamped back over to his pot. He threaded each leg back into the soil and shook out his leaves. “Don’t forget to water me this time,” he said, then twisted into his former shape and went still.
I blinked down at my coffee mug, still clutched in my hand. Hadn’t I set that down?
I brought it downstairs and dumped the whole cup down the drain, then refilled it with water for the ficus bonsai. Must’ve been a bad batch.