We don’t really, because we is only I and I don’t often wear pink. But on Wednesdays I water my plants, and many of these have leaves with streaks of glossy flamingo, flowers like cotton candy, lipstick-bright veins in fern-green leaves. On Wednesdays I water my plants because I have an hour free in the mornings that I don’t often have other days of the week. Into the watering can goes the dechlorinated water. Every third week, March through October, I add a supplement made from kelp; this is an improvement over the fishmeal or bonemeal or bloodmeal we used when I was a kid. I check each pot as I wander through the house, water can in hand. I name them all. Still damp? No water. There’s Shakira, the dracaena that shimmies in the soft spring breeze from the open patio door. Little droopy? Have a sip and a seat by the window. So on through the rooms, over each shelf, every planter checked. Here’s Keanu, a pothos that still looks as lively as the day he arrived on my doorstep many years ago. On Wednesdays some of my plants wear pink and they let me sit with them. I had an orchid the sweet soft bubblegum hue of my favorite middle school lip gloss, an unapproachable beauty of a flower: slender and impossibly gorgeous and happy only on a complicated, ever-changing regimen of imported food and human suffering. I named her Regina. Regina died in the end. All the other plants seemed to perk up a bit afterward.
Adrienne Crezo is an editor and writer. She lives in Ohio with her family, dog, and a lot of houseplants.