The Shower Coleus
My mother had been trying to pawn off her baby coleus rootings for months.
Every time I visited her house, there seemed to be another tray.
They were multiplying on a weekly basis. I didn’t know how she was doing it.
“Do you want one?” she’d ask.
“No, thanks,” I’d always answer, exasperated.
I already had enough plants. I had no interest in taking responsibility for yet another annual that would need watering, deadheading, or overwintering.
Whatever she was doing with the coleus was her project, not mine.
At one point, the plants had taken over the house.
The dining room table was covered.
The entryway was overrun with them.
You could barely eat at the kitchen table.
Every sunny surface seemed to have a tray of coleus on it.
The whole thing felt slightly absurd.
My mother has always been inventive. Give her a single plant, and somehow she’d end up with a dozen more.
By Memorial Day weekend, most of the coleus had found new homes. A few remained.
The truth is, I had already started to change my mind.
One afternoon, I was taking a shower outside and found myself looking at the empty corner beside it.
This spot could use a plant, I thought. Not just any plant.
That coleus would be perfect.
It didn’t need much sun. It would add just the right amount of color. For the first time, I could actually see where it belonged.
The coleus I never wanted. Until I did. Photo by Parsley & Petal
A few days later, a large group of relatives who had come in from out of town for a family wedding gathered at my mother’s house for one of her traditional lobster lunches.
It was the kind of summer afternoon we’ve had many times over the years. People coming and going, taking photos. My uncle holding a lobster-eating demonstration. Laughter and conversations drifting from room to room. Everyone eventually finding their place around the tables and seating areas scattered about.
At some point, I noticed my mother handing one of the remaining coleus plants to my aunt.
The sunlight caught the leaves.
I can still see it.
The plant had grown into a lovely specimen. I suddenly noticed how airy it looked, how the light moved through the foliage, how it seemed to glow.
And before I could stop myself, I burst out: “Mom! Save me one!!!”
I have enough of a heart that I didn’t steal that particular plant out of my aunt's hands. I’m not a monster! Besides, my mother had another one waiting.
And that coleus eventually made its way to the outdoor shower at my house.
After witnessing the exchange, my cousin laughed.
“You know, I never knew you were a writer. Is this how you come up with your stories?” she asked. “Your mom gives you a plant, and then you write about it?”
“Well, maybe. Sometimes. Kind of, I guess.”
She told me she had recently read one of my essays.
“Which one?”
Then she paused.
“It was about rabbits, I think, but not really.”
She was right.
I looked across the room at my family.
“This family has stories,” I said.
My cousin smiled. “It sure does.”
You can find more seasonal notes and garden observations in The Seasonal Edit.
The Seasonal Edit
The Seasonal Edit is a recurring garden checklist of what’s emerging, what can wait, and what deserves attention now. Practical tasks. Clear structure. Timed to the season as it unfolds.