Goodbye, Cactus
As tall as me,
nestled in your
pot,
wheels underneath.
Remember when we
brought you to the
office?
Six caregivers
to keep watch over
you as we moved
like a parade of tortoises
in the desert,
you wrapped in
paper,
in human arms.
You must have
liked
your home.
A cactus baby
emerged from your
roots.
Joy each morning
to say
Hello.
And then,
you were alone.
Ferns and violets transferred
from the
university to
home offices.
But you,
you were too big,
and you liked the
light in the conference room,
and that baby
cactus,
your sprout.
Almost no humans on campus
and yet
Too many people tried
to help you.
Too many people
tried to save you.
Too many people offered
you
a drink of water,
just in case.
Too much water.
Did you develop a cough?
Were your lungs
tight?
Did you have a
fever
dream that you
were
living outside
in a rain forest?
I have missed you
these many months
apart.
With time, though, it's gotten easier.
But death,
even from a
distance,
is still death.
I won’t see you
again,
but I will remember
that day,
when you took a stroll
around
your new home.
You loved it,
and we loved you.
