In the autumn of 2008, my now-wife and I were renting the second floor of a two-story house. The downstairs had not been rented in months, and in an effort to attract tenants, the landlord had placed several potted flowers on the front stoop during the summer.
As the flowers died, our landlord periodically replaced them with fresh specimens. Some of the older ones, apparently no longer of any aesthetic value, were left to languish in the brush along the side of the house. Most of the plants wilted quickly, but at least one persevered despite the drop in daylight.
On a particularly blustery day, my wife discovered a toppled flower poking out near the bottom of a receding bush, its precious soil spilt and its receptacle cracked. She wouldn’t bear to let it fall prey to neglect, so she collected the remains and brought it upstairs.
When first I saw the thing, it was unrecognizable; a single translucent green stalk, tenuously holding on to three or four leaves and devoid of fruit or flower. As far as we could tell, it might already be dead. We stuck it on the bedside table, in front of a window, with little hope.
The flower took to its new indoor environment with gusto. A week after rescuing it, there were new shoots popping out of the cragged stem. Soon, small flowers ranging from pink to violet with white centers sprouted all over. It appeared that the plant would survive.
We still didn’t know exactly what species the flower was. We were unsure what its life-span might be, how large it could potentially grow, how much light and water it might require. With our other plants, we knew what to expect. We had directions at our disposal to guide our interactions. But in this case, we were forced to learn the flower’s needs and personality through trial and error.
As the plant grew, its demands for water and light increased significantly. If one of us forgot to water it for a single day, the petals would loosen and fall, and the leaves would almost immediately drain of their rigidity. The entire plant would droop rather morbidly. Within an hour or two of watering, it would revert back to its former virility.
By the spring of 2009, the plant had outgrown its pot and our bedside. We gave it a much larger pot of dirt, and moved it in front of the kitchen window.
At times, the plant would inexplicably shed most of its foliage. This event did not seem to follow a particular seasonal pattern. The first time we witnessed it, we suspected that the plant had lived its course. But a few days later that theory was put to rest by the appearance of new buds.
Eventually, the plant got so large that it took over the windowsill. Spices and other small plants that shared the sunlight were choked out by the spindly tentacles of the plant. Some arms had snuck into crevices and snaked in front of the other plants, robbing them of photosynthetic opportunities. Our counter began to resemble the set from Little Shop of Horrors.
We finally could stand no more. The kudzu has been removed from the kitchen and given its own spot in the living room, where most of our monster-sized plants end up. There’s no telling yet whether it will find the new habitué suitable. That may not be such a terrible problem, though – unless it stops expanding, we’re going to need another pot to contain it pretty soon.
And who knows where it will end? Knowing what I now know about the plant’s intentions, I won’t be surprised if I wake up one day to find myself trapped beneath a mesh of leaves and cute pink flowers.
The Creature.
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