For much longer than I’ve been in this world, my grandmother has kept a cactus in her kitchen. It’s one of the things I love to remember, her big picture window with different varieties sitting nestled there to soak up the sun. Once when I was in lower elementary school I was being too busy in my chair at the kitchen table, and I leaned back into one of the plants. I got myself a shirt full of needles. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what that felt like. I remember sitting at the table eating and listening to her and grandpa just talk normal end of the day talk. I remember just seeing all of her plants.
When she passed away this summer, I wanted a cactus in my kitchen. I felt like it was a reminder that though time has changed, she’s gone, and now I’m the adult, it’s all okay because there’s continuity in the kitchen window.
I asked grandpa for one of theirs, they had two large ones without prickly needles (I have no desire to see my children live the needle incident) and he told me I could have the prayer plant. I was thankful, but I wanted a cactus. I had to work up the nerve to ask for one. Since there were two, I’d hoped he would give me one. I guess he felt the attachment too, and wasn’t able to part with them himself. He chose to give me cuttings instead. He did generously give me two, one from each plant. I had to take them home and google what the tarnation to do with a cactus cutting. I’m not exactly a gardener over here.
I’m happy to say that as of right now, they live! I have the two newly potted cacti, my own succulent I got at Home Depot and the prayer plant all sitting in my kitchen window.