The Inside Diaries

Dipladenia

"Hullo—" She heard a familiar voice. Was that—Matias? She opened her eyes, cat carrier, tote and all, finding herself at his front garden.

On his front garden. Whoops.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" she yelped, tiptoeing past the pepper plants and gourds, hoping she hadn't accidentally caused damage.

He chuckled. "No harm done, dear." Surveying her items, he smiled. "I take it you're here for a bit longer?"

"Something like that."

"I would ask you to stay—"

"Matias, you don't have to—"

"But I'm afraid I don't have any room." The condo was, after all, tiny. Nevertheless, her shoulders slumped just the littlest bit. Even here, in this world she had created, there was no room. Even here, her presence was forgotten—even now—

"But I know the perfect place," he continued, as she glanced at his piercing eyes. "An Air B&B practically next door, beautiful living room, eclectic bedroom. Cat-proof thus ideal for the kitty too, methinks?"

She nodded. "Sounds like a plan!"

Soon after, she found herself in a white living room, bright with skylights and adorned here and there with tasteful potted tropical ferns and palms alike. Making her way to the bedroom, she closed her eyes, imagining the bedroom of her dreams—bohemian style—and all of the tea lights. She opened the door—and gasped—

Gracefully sloping walls were adorned with patterned blue tapestries. Faux ivy (or was it real?) dangled from overhead, along with tea lights every corner she looked, along with a wood-carved desk and chair, and a cushioned, pillowy twin sized bed to its immediate left.

"I love it," she breathed, as a single tear escaped her cheek.

After getting settled, taking a nap, and brushing the kitty, she remembered Matias' garden and felt an immediate stab of guilt. Perhaps she could...? An idea formulated in her mind.

Two hours later, Matias heard a knock, and came face-to-face with the lady from earlier. "Is everything to your liking?"

"Yes. Also, Matias, I'm really sorry about your plants—" as she handed him a miniature potted plant from the traveling florist's tin van shop. "This is the least I could do—"

He opened the door wider. "Oh, thank you, you had no need, I already harvested—but it is appreciated nonetheless. Speaking of which..." he thought aloud, "why don't you come see my balcony garden?" She followed as he led her—she imagined plain concrete or stucco, a couple of potted greens—but her mouth dropped open—

There, juxtaposed against the sapphire night sky, glimmering beneath the slivered moonlight, were rough-hewn tea lights strung across the balcony roof with thick, sturdy rope. And—she stopped, transfixed. Five...ten...fourteen...no...fifteen(!) plant varietals. Not to mention straw fans nailed atop the adjoining wall, along with a straw carving of a peace symbol. Seagrass, maybe. Not to mention the woven tan macrame along the wrought-iron railing.

"It—it's beautiful!"

She spent the next half hour learning the names of various plants. The Areca palm. The Bamboo palm. The Majesty palm. The pink-blossomed Dipladenia. And more. Matias had clever nicknames for them too—Aria, Bonnie, Marjorie, and Danae.

"Why?" she finally asked. "Why do you name your houseplants?"

He stared into the starry sky, then looked back at her. "They are, in a sense, my children. That, and..." he paused. "I suppose, I thought—if I named them, they would thrive—and be far less forgettable." She made as if to leave shortly thereafter; he insisted on walking her home, out of an abundance of caution, though the streets were deserted.

Once they reached her Air B&B, he said his goodbye, and with a halting voice began to speak. "Far be it for me to...well...but...you are not forgettable, my dear. I know you think your island family has forgotten you. Favored boy cousins over the girls. Not seen you for decades. Couldn't pick you from a lineup. But know that I—and others on this island—we can be your family too. We welcome you with open arms."

Blinking hard, she hugged him. "Thanks, Matias. That really means a lot."