A beautiful diary from the perspective of a zucchini plant being grown on the International Space Station. He is lonely, but full of love, and I can only imagine the astronaut writing on his behalf might feel similar.
I sprouted, thrust into this world without anyone consulting me. I am not one of the beautiful; I am not one that by any other name instills flutters in the human heart. I am the kind that makes little boys gag at the dinner table thus being sent to bed without their dessert. I am utilitarian, hearty vegetative matter that can thrive under harsh conditions. I am zucchini – and I am in space.
His growth brings joy in space:
My gardener fusses with my leaves. I am not sure if I like that. I now have four and I do not quite understand why he behaves this way. He sticks his nose up against them. Does he take me for some sort of a handkerchief? Apparently he takes pleasure in my earthy green smell. There is nothing like the smell of living green in this forest of engineered machinery. I see the resultant smile. Maybe this is one of my roles as a crewmember on this expedition.
On Valentine’s day, when the astronaut is speaking with his partner on Earth:
He said to her, “I can not offer you much; I can only give you a space zucchini.” The image of my orange blossom was beamed across the void between spacecraft and Earth. Her heart melted. I felt as much a rose as any rose could ever be. He picked my flower and opened a large book, an atlas. Placing my bloom on the map of Texas, over Houston town, he closed the book and clamped it shut with a piece of Kapton tape. He said come July, when our mission is over, he will present this to her in person. I thought that something must be wrong for both of them had tears. In space, tears do not run down your cheeks but remain as a glob in the corner of your eye.