“Well,” said the voice on the other side of the phone, “it must belong somewhere.”
“Obviously.” I replied, pacing around my new flat, looking for somewhere sunny enough to place my plant. I had the phone tucked between my head and my shoulder, as the little cactus’ pot was rather heavy, and required two hands. My mom was on the other end, trying to advise me on how to best care for her new succulent.
“It should probably go on a windowsill.” she offered.
“Except I don’t have a windowsill, mum.” I retorted, a bit annoyed. Of course it should go on a windowsill, the little guy needed light. Not that it would get much, in the perpetual, rainy, grey out here.
“Well then put it near a window. It shouldn’t matter, I’m sure that you will do just fine. I gotta go, sweetheart. Bye!” She hung up the phone, leaving me alone with my cactus, and the beeping tone of the now dead line.
“Bye.” I said, to nobody. I walked over to the couch, and dropped the phone onto the cushions, before starting to pace again. Surely I can find a place for a little cactus, right? Or would this end the way everything ended, with it shrivelling up and dying. Just like my relationships do. Just like my passion had. In a month, would a sickly brown succulent be an altar, worshipping my failures?
I grabbed one of the white side tables from beside the couch, and pushed it up against the window. There was a bit of golden sunlight peeking through the clouds, and making its way into the living room. I set the cactus upon the table, and sat down on the floor, cross legged and eye level with the plant.
I could feel the fear rising up within me again. But why? It was just a damn cactus, surely I should be able to take care of this. And if I couldn’t? What was the big deal? It was just a cactus. It was just a cactus. It was just a cactus. Yet, I still felt my stomach turn at the prospect of the little guy dying. I imagined it laying there, wilted and sad looking, and I could feel my heart rate begin to rise. My breath hitched, and I began to remember all the other things that she had failed at.
My relationship was over.
I was behind at work.
And my mom had just hung up on me.
Now, I had this little life in my hands. I stared at it.
“Pascal.” I said aloud. I gave it a name, and a reason to live, I hoped. I didn’t want to kill this little guy, but I'm still afraid that I will. Maybe there's no point in trying. Maybe there is. I stood up and grabbed a pot of water from the sink, and poured a bit of water into Pascal’s pot. Maybe there was a point.
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