[ WP ] The lone plant you complain to about your day has had it . It has decided to take matters into it 's own hands .

I grew. 
 
 Slowly, yes, but I *do* grow. I can sense it as the tips of my leaves tingle, I know it when my roots dig deeper, I can feel the bud that is preparing to bloom. 
 
 I feel vibrations through the ceramic of my pot. The creature, massive and moving, lumbers past, then stops. I ca n't see, but I can feel her presence, smell the air she breathes out. The sun that warms my leaves is blocked, briefly, as something is raised above me. A shower of water tumbles over my stem and soaking the soil. My roots seek the moisture out, and instantly, I feel invigorated. I give the tiniest of happy sighs. 
 
 This creature that cares for me, gives me a place in the sun and gives me the water I need, she sits, heavily, in the chair that faces the window I am in. Many plants would not know this, would n't understand the names of the world around them. But there is a difference between me and the common potted petunia. 
 
 `` Hey, pal. How's it going? Sorry that I nearly forgot to water you.'' 
 
 The human that cares for me, *speaks* to me. 
 
 She is the reason I know what the life giving liquid is called, the reason i know why my leaves grow cool at night. She tells me about her day, in a way that is almost poetic, describing the world around us. 
 
 It started when she first got me. I did n't understand the vibrations that came from her mouth, not back then, but she had learned something about gardens growing better when you speak to them, giving them compliments and treating them well. Soon, her daily `` Hello, pal,'' turned into a sentence or two about what she enjoyed that day, or a description of the colors in the sunset, and now I'm the being she tells of her fears and joys, her confidant for secrets. 
 
 I do n't think she knows I understand her, but I enjoy her ramblings. 
 
 Today, she seems almost a bit more hesitant as she speaks, and I know she feels like crying. A huff of air ruffles me, a sigh. 
 
 `` I'm sorry. Its just... Paul... Paul yelled again.'' 
 
 I remember Paul. Her neighbor, a grouch, who spends his days mowing and keeping up his perfect yard. Bushes trimmed, grass green and perfectly mowed, even the trees get pruned on an almost daily basis. 
 
 `` He hates how I keep my yard, and I can almost understand him. I just never seem to have the time to pluck weeds or mow. There's so many things I have to fit in my schedule, with the new job and taking care of you. I have to work late a lot, you know.'' 
 
 She sighed again. `` Its just... I do n't see why he has to be so *mean* about it. Do n't tell anyone, but I think he assumes a yard is how to measure the worth of a person. He constantly holds his standards over my head, telling me that I'm an embarrassment to the neighborhood. I *try, * it just never seems good enough for him.'' Two thumps hit the windowsill next to me, and I know she's rested her elbows on it, to hold her head. `` I'm just not sure what to do about it.'' 
 
 This is the third time in a week that she's had issues with Paul. I feel something, something different in me. I do n't like this Paul, and how he treats my friend. Surprised, I realise that... I'm *angry. * 
 
 That in and of itself is unusual. Plants do n't get angry. 
 
 ``... thanks for listening, pal. I've got some work to finish.'' Slowly, she stands, and walks away. 
 
 As her footsteps fade, I ponder my new emotion. Why do I feel this way? What changed about me? I do n't like Paul. He's mean to her, and all I want is for her to be happy. 
 
 And slowly, it dawns upon me that maybe, maybe I can do something about that. 
 
 Slowly, I reach out with my roots. There's a crack in my pot at the bottom, and I've been tentatively exploring it for a couple days. But more important, just beyond that, is a gap in the windowsill, a way to the outside that the tips of my roots have barely managed to touch. 
 
 There is a way to fix this. I set to work. 
 
 After all, its the least I can do for her. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Over the next week and a half, I grow my roots. I take all the excess from my leaves and stem, and direct them down, instead of up. I wo n't grow taller, my bud wo n't bloom, but my roots... My roots spread like wildfire. 
 
 Not that I like fire, mind you. 
 
 They expanded put the window and through the wall, into the unadulterated dirt outside. Under the grasses and weeds, over the whole yard like a tangle of wires. 
 
 And then I start by killing the weeds. 
 
 Weeds, nasty, thoughtless things, that only exist to take up room where they are n't wanted. I have no qualms about destroying them. My roots easily encompass theirs, taking their nutrients and dragging them down. Their dead leaves act as a fertilizer to the grass, and I can feel it getting healthier, stronger. 
 
 No more weeds, and grass as green as it could ever be. Paul has nothing to complain about now. 
 
 But even the day I finished, she came in, sad again, and informed me that Paul had asked her if she even knew how to mow. `` I try to get around to it, really! But it takes so long, and I have no time. My boss keeps wanting me to work overtime, and I need the money.'' I could tell she was looking out the window, from the direction of her voice. Looking over at Paul, her oppressor. 
 
 So I started killing the biggest blades of grass. I could tell, from the size of their roots, which ones were taller than the rest, and I treated them as I had the weeds. And soon after that, her yard was short, and, while if not even, did n't appear overgrown at all. 
 
 But she came in another day, frustrated. `` He wo n't even tell me what's wrong with my yard anymore. Somehow, the grass got *shorter* without me doing anything, and he still thinks I'm a failure!'' While her voice was angry, I could hear the tears, the water that killed with its sadness and salt, threatening to burst through. I was beginning to suspect that she had problems at work as well, and that Paul was simply the reminder at the end of each day of her misery. 
 
 I could still help, though. But with what? Her yard was as good as I could get it, and yet it would never compare to what Paul did, slaving away on his own side of the fence, cultivating the perfect gardens. 
 
 So maybe I needed to try another tactic. 

