"A single green sprouting thing
would restore me..."
A few weeks ago I found an antique Singer sewing machine table for a writing desk. The intricate cast-iron stand remains intact, but the top is now solid hardwood and there's a pretty painted foot rest where the pedal must have been. I hoped the purchase of a desk, a space of my own, would spur me to return to writing after a time apart.
Naturally, one wants a plant in one's creative place, so I picked out a cactus at the co-op. It's a rather spherical green number with long golden spikes, and I held it (gingerly) all the way home. I placed it on my desk under the skylight beneath the eaves. I'm a first-time cactus parent (though I have always admired the cacti of others), and called the co-op a few days later, trying to find someone who could tell me how to care for my new charge. Alas, I was passed from person to person and eventually told I would hear from their plant expert. Needless to say (yet I do), I didn't.
My chief concern was when or if to water it, and I longed for a book along the lines of "What to Expect When You're Expecting Your Cactus to Croak." After all, I faithfully water my other plants weekly on Monday...or Tuesday...or usually Wednesday or Thursday when I finally remember. As the base of my succulent friend seemed a bit sunken and became strangely pale, at last I gave her a little drink the other day.
A surprise! The following morning I called Dan over to see the small nub which had appeared at the top. (I called it a " cactus baby," he said "cactus poo"). The day after, it turned to bud and then flower in a matter of hours.
This flower business has been going on for several days. The blossom is an eerie, protruding, light-reaching thing - white and silken - so shiny it almost looks made. Still, it feels miraculous and makes me hopeful. Restored.
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