The Coastal Gardener:

Editor’s note: No plants were harmed in the writing of this fictitious column.

Everyone who gardens understands the loss of a loved one, or two or three ... or 100.

At this week’s “group therapy” meeting, a “new member” made a heartfelt confession, one that might help others. Perhaps it sounds familiar. Here’s her story:

“What I am about to confess to all of you may shock and upset you, but I have to get it off my mind. Hello. My name is Jane, and I am a serial killer. (The group responds, ‘Hello, Jane.’) There it is, out in the open for all to know. I have been hiding this for years. Confession is good for the soul, and the first step toward recovery, right?

“It started small enough, innocent enough, many years ago. I didn’t plan on becoming the killer that I am now. I thought I was different, that I wouldn’t go through life being a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer, but it is who I am. I have hurt so many. I will always have this stain on my soul, and I seem to be powerless; there is nothing I can do about it.

“I didn’t start on small animals, like most killers do. No, I started on even smaller than animals. I started with seeds.

“Tiny little innocent seeds. Seeds that couldn’t even fight back, whose only hope was to someday grow big and tall and strong and to bloom and spread joy in the world. To bring smiles and pleasure to others. Little did they know that when I took them home, all hope of a future was gone.

“In those early days it was easy for me to murder a seed. I did it with no remorse, unaware of my actions. I’d just stick them in the dirt, according to instructions and watch them die. Little did they know. They were as good as dead the moment I buried them.

“When I lost interest in watching little seeds die, I moved on to seedlings. Small, infant plants that were full of young life and impatient about their futures, wanting to grow big and tall. Not even in the adolescence of their little lives do I have mercy.