The plants, the plants…of which I had gathered together, a few weeks ago for sanctuary, on the back porch, even repotting a few and sharing. CL had to have a few for her new apartment and the “sorry your dad is dead” peace lilly had a few babies over the summer that needed a new pot. I was awoken to scraping, shoving and tossing and cussing- I didn’t pay attention to the dropping temperature- so JM brought them in. Guilt, guilt oh the sting of it. I threaten to just leave them outside to avoid the refrain, “don’t have any room for all these plants”. Some of them have went on to “death plant row” just so I wouldn’t hear the grumping. I am the plant executioner, as much as I am the plant “savior” as spring threatens to return… many have such a story that comes along with them-my family scrapbook, and I’d be sorry to see them, black wilty and exterminated, one more piece of my past dead, dead, dead. Blame it on SAD, but mostly me on mad that I fell into the fall trap of Indian summer, “I have more time”, I’ll get them in this weekend. And I should of, but I didn’t – so tomorrow will be either the plant lecture that he had to bring them in, of the stony silence and reproach of him having to- cause “oops I’ve killed a few more of the things I love”, plant survivor guilt- forgive me plants, because I don’t deserve you. Oops.