By Whitney Cole
I reach into boxes, my shirt sticking to my skin in what feels to be an atmosphere consisting solely of hot, damp invisible washcloths. More than four fans whir and birds chirp through an open window, but none of these seem to ease the experience. Lou barks at the television, not understanding the disembodied voices. I lazily tell her “no,” and continue talking to her as if she understands me. I am surrounded by little boxes filled with whatever would fit in one trip, empty jars, loose pens and spoons, a liquor collection fit for an elderly man, and widowed shoes and socks. The longer I put off finding them a place in this new home, the more difficult it will be.
Since first beginning school in Richmond, I have lived in five places not including my own birthplace (where I stayed and commuted for a small period of time). This place is that fifth. Every time requires a complete uprooting from what I’ve grown accustomed and a plunge into a new space, system, or network. Each place has its own joys and frustrations, with the latest being a lack of an air conditioning system. Moving in during the hottest days yet this year isn’t exactly a motivating factor.
Though many a box remains un-emptied, I have instead directed my attention to the crowned jewel of my new temporary abode: the balcony. This lovely little extension into the outside world is the home of my newest unwavering interest in gardening. I have daydreamed about being able to sit in a tiny oasis of plant life, being someone who grew up in nothing but greenery and quiet. I have studied different plants and their various tendencies, making repetitive, obsessive lists and diagrams in order to somehow make these desires more realized.
Within a day of dragging in the first wave of nonsensically organized boxes, I was off to the plant nursery buying things for the balcony, the tiny four-legged gardener in tow.
I learned two lessons fairly quickly:
1. Don’t put light, lanky plants on a surface higher than the balcony railing (I lost most of the zinnia plant after a three-story leap).
2. It’s gon’ rain.
After my gleeful purchase of mostly drought-tolerant plants, it monsooned, forcing me to shield my little green babies by hiding them under benches or inside the apartment.
Alas, I needed to learn more lessons. Not a full day later, I was off to buy even more plants. I’ve caught the bug. I can’t stop.
The dance of plant life has ensued, with me being the ultimate plant helicopter mom. I come out and check on them multiple times of day, staring at them as if they are the most unsolvable of puzzles. I’ve already replanted some and feel my stomach drop as I watch leave shrivel or stems droop. I am on a mission to keep these plants alive.
Already there have been both mishaps and little victories ...
... but at the end of the day that balcony is a place I can escape and relax. There always seems to be a gentle breeze to greet me, whether in early morning or late in the evening, and I sit listening to distant city sounds and the birds coo and chirp to one another. The sky turns from blues to pinks and purples, and a few stars even come out on a clear night.
I smile and look at the poor little beings in my care, in pots of various colors and sizes, all moved and dropped and trying to survive, and assure myself that I can do this.
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| Whitney Cole is a tiny Southern firecracker from small-town Virginia She graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University in 2015 with a B.F.A. in Photography. Her work to date has been an investigation of her Southern heritage. Follow her on Instagram for lots of pictures of her dog and trees. |
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