A greenman.

I constantly think that I'm killing my plants.

It doesn't help at all that one of them is exceptionally dramatic. It seems to be completely shrivelled and dead. I water it. It is content and upright within the hour. Days later, it faints again. I move it closer to the window. It rises and preens. The next day it feels too close to the heat and coughs like a prissy aristocrat. Ignored, it huffs and flops down in its pot. I move it a few feet away. It looks at me as if disappointed and gestures towards the sewing table. I set it down. It starts to sit up but in doing so realises that it would much rather be three inches to the left. It pretends to plunge a dagger into its pink and green heart. I yawn and readjust it. It stands and performs a waltz before demanding to be watered again. It's a terrible plant, and, unfortunately, it's theatrics have succeeded: I adore it.

However, with some regularity I despair upon finding too many brown leaves, a withered stalk. And every time I'm utterly astonished to find a shock of green, four inches of new growth gathering at the centre in clumps.

I was born and raised in cities (heaven be praised!) so sometimes I forget that these metaphors of life and death have their tenors.