Just hauled out some dead ferns that have been hanging in my office all winter. They weren't dead when I brought them in last autumn. They were actually still viable at the time. However it's been a slow death since then. No amount of nurturing seemed to sustain them over the winter season. The inside air is parched dry from the furnace, and the omnipresent darkness of winter surely doesn't help. The odd part is how this ritual repeats itself every year despite the certainty of failure. I'm under no illusion that I will succeed in keeping the plants alive, but still I try. There's always that sense of initial optimism when the room is filled with lush green leaves. In my mind's eye, they will be giving off an endless supply of precious oxygen while absorbing carbon dioxide. But the reality is they begin dying the very first week. It just takes a while to notice.
When I brought them outside last week, they were a depressing vestige of their former selves. The contrast was especially acute amid the brilliant greens of early May. It was much the same feeling as I explored this abandoned house. It jutted up from the ground like an off-sized toadstool, drab and colorless against a vibrant springtime landscape.
