Do Plants Have Something to Say? (NYT)

I am turning into a rutabaga. The process began three weeks ago, when I noticed tiny green leaves growing out of my ears. I tried cleaning them out with a cotton swab but it didn't help. When tiny rootlets began sprouting on the bottom of my feet, making it difficult to walk, I hobbled over to the clinic to let the medicos have a gander at me. 
The doctor told me that people turn into plants all the time, but it's hushed up because of the damn Chinese. I didn't really follow his reasoning, but I decided there was only one way to handle the situation: I would embrace my rutabaganess, not fear it.
I have given up my apartment for a large clay pot that gets plenty of sun on my daughter's patio. She waters me every day and we have pleasant conversations on the weather and the best way to cook beef heart; I always liked it fried with lots of onions, but she uses it to make beef stew. Somehow, that seems like cheating. 
I actually don't eat meat anymore -- or anything else, for that matter. I get all the nutrition I need from sunlight and from minerals in the soil. Miracle-Gro is really delicious!
And I have started dialogues with the sunflowers and sumac bushes in my daughter's yard. Their language is deep and mysterious, full of ambiguity and brazen inconsequence. It's never been written down, that I know of, and so they often speak of past deeds and like to repeat long convoluted genealogies by rote that frankly bore me to tears. But when I can get them away from their myths and family trees their talk can be quite interesting. 
Plants have no conception of death. None at all. And I find that as I settle more deeply into my clay pot I, too, no longer either fear death or even believe in it. After all, a plant has no soul, and so I am no longer concerned about what will happen to mine. Instead I warm myself on these cool fall nights by thinking of the time, in several more months, when my daughter will pluck me up, rinse me off, dice me, boil me, mash me, and serve me with plenty of butter to her family for Thanksgiving. I will have fulfilled my purpose and nourished my family -- and that is all there is to my existence. It's a beautiful concept I could wish more people would embrace.