The Potted Rose

There was a small potted rose in my science teacher's classroom. It sat on her desk in the front near the whiteboard, pink, delicate, beautiful—but fake. The petals were of silk, and the stem and leaves of plastic. A minute bud was springing up beside the large flower, just a tiny thing, not really much more to speak of than a mosquito. The small plant, all in all, was a pretty thing. I would come into science class and focus on (but not ponder much about) it. It served as an innocent pastime, zoning out with my eyes on the forever blooming flower.

One day, however, I came in and the petals of the larger flower seemed to be just a bit more spread out, and the sepals of the tiny bud just a bit more open. I found this a tad curious, but put it down to my imagination and paid little attention to my fantasies.

The following day, again I experienced the same sense that the plant was actually growing. Just to be sure of myself, when the bell rang that morning, I stepped up to the desk and stroked the petals of the rose softly. I had not been mistaken before in my surmise that the plant was fake. My conclusion was that someone had rotated the pot a bit so that I viewed a different angle of it. This set my mind at ease. With this determined, I promptly turned about on my heel and forgot the incident completely. That is, until the next day.

Come the consequent morning, I knew I could not be merely seeing this in my imagination only; the fake plant was most certainly alive. Well, not alive, technically, but alive enough to produce a whole new bud! For there, poking out from under the leaves, was a brand new green bud, barely formed. It had come into being during the night.

Yet, I was hesitant to believe my eyes. I had no proof that this was happening. And who would believe me, if I were to talk of this to anyone? They should laugh and tell me to merely go and climb a tree or some such nonsense. If I ever was going to confront anyone about this, I should first need to acquire some evidence of a kind.

Thus, when we were sent away again, dismissed to lunched, I stepped up to the plant and made a tiny black dot with a permanent marker on the clay pot. Then, I photographed the plant in its entirety with my camera phone. Satisfied then, I strolled out of the classroom. I felt confident that this would turn out to just be something that I had created in my head. Rather, that was what I desperately hoped—for what if it was not? What would happen then? What would that entail? These thoughts frightened me until the morrow.

The next day in class, surreptitiously under cover of my desk I compared my photograph from yesterday with the view I could see now today. To my utter shock, the (until now) unopened bud was halfway open, and the large flower looked as though it was about to fall apart. During the class, as I watched the plant, I nearly fell out of my chair as I observed definite progress in the decaying of the flower—a single petal falling from the large rose. It floated gently to the floor, inches from my foot. I became rather scared, then. This defied all logic—living things are born, grow, decay, and die, all at a quick pace. Not material things like silk and plastic; they are quicker to be formed and slower to decay.

However, I yet did nothing about the plant. I mentioned it to no one still, in hopes that the entire situation would dissipate ere long.

The day the petal fell being a Friday, I was sentenced to being at home, away from the science classroom, the plant, and the mystery surrounding them, until Monday.

On Monday I ran to my science classroom and burst in. My science teacher was at her desk, calmly grading papers, and she scarcely seemed surprised when I burst inside. I went immediately to the spot where I had last seen the plant—but it was not there!

I swiftly pounced on my science teacher, demanding to know what had become of the potted rose. She looked somewhat bewildered as she replied, "Potted rose? What are you talking about; I've never had a potted rose."

I still can't figure this one out.