Life of plants
When I was a child, people often told my mother: ‘Your daughter is a greenhouse plant.’ Sometimes they lowered their voices and thought that I did not hear; sometimes they looked at me from top to bottom - from afar, from where everything is known about those like me. At that moment, I imagined a greenhouse, a small, tightly wrapped with a tape, with traces of my breathing and drops falling from the walls. I sat in it; legs bent under me, and I hear nothing.
Seemed to them that it was something wrong with me. They advised to fortify my personality.
They believed that I should be more fun, louder, more sociable, read less and walk more, make friends, gain weight, stop being so pale, go in for sports, make friends.
Seemed to me that something was wrong with me. I definitely knew this about myself then and I am sure of it now. I continue being grown with excessive care, an unadaptable plant with a voice too quiet and a body too weak.
I grow them like myself. I water, transplant, wipe, check whether there is a lot of light, check whether there is not enough light, highlight, pinch, feed, poison from pests, cut, water again. I fill the windowsills with plants, I try my best, but they still sometimes die, leaving only roots in the earth, small and so thin.