It's still alive. I'm pretty good about not killing plants these days. At work, I've got three poinsettias, one of which is four years old now, an orchid, and a bamboo plant.
I haven't been too good at keeping flowering plant flowering. I got an azalea two years ago. It must have lived another 18 months after that, but it never bloomed again. The poinsettias have never turned red again. I know the theory behind making them turn red, but I've been afraid to try it; I think they might die. Now that I've got three, maybe I'll give it a shot this year with one of them.
But the cyclamen, which I've had for almost three weeks now, is still flowering. It looks pretty good. The orchid, which Angela gave me for my birthday, is also still blooming, six weeks later. One of its leaves had a bit of blight and I cut it away, and one of the five flowers wilted and fell off, but the other four are still a bright, healthy lavender-fuchsia. It's almost eerie. I've never seen a house plant bloom for so long.
I don't do anything special for my plants. Just water them and keep the lights on over my desk so they get good light. I moved the cyclamen from the den to my bedroom window so it'd get some direct sunlight. But I've never really done the plant food thing. I probably should.
I wonder, if I get a house and have a yard, if I'll want to garden? I always thought it looked like a lot of fuss and bother for not much reward. I know I keep the poinsettias mainly out of pity; I can't stand to see the poor things killed after the holidays.
But maybe a garden would be nice, after all.