I didn't mean to kill it. I had good intentions, and just wanted it to look nice.
I love to give my wife and daughters plants as gifts. Mainly for selfish reasons. The plants usually languish on some table or corner somewhere, until I can “rescue” them and blend them into my landscape.
So the patchouli plant was great. It smelled so good, and my wife loves incense. I planted it in front of my miniature bamboo. I see my garden with the same eye as I think an artist would paint a canvas, carefully matching colors, textures, sizes, aroma, dinensions.
I realized that the patchouli was placed too close to the bamboo. For two reasons.
One, I wanted it closer to the pathway, so that a casual brush against it, or a stirring breeze, could waft the scent up to the passer by.
Two, I needed another plant, taller than the patchouli, something with darker and broader leaves.
Therefore, I dug up the happy patchouli and moved it about two feet forward in the bed.
My wife walked out into the garden to pick a ripe tomato or two. And saw the wilted patchouli, splayed out over the mulch like a drunken cowboy.
And she was not happy.
“My patchouli,” she sputtered. “What happened? What did you do?”
I did the honorable thing. I blamed it on Leon, our exuberant boxer, who was recently reprimanded for destroying a newly planted rhododendron with natural urea.
Somehow, though, I think she really knows I committed the murder. First of all, she knows that Leon, as smart as he is, lacks opposing thumbs and therefore would have a very difficult time transplanting the patchouli plant. And secondly, I answered too fast. Any rookie cop would have noticed immediately how quickly I answered her question, as though I had already prepared an alibi.
By the way, I'm heading out to the nursery tomorrow to find another patchouli plant.
