Too Much of a Necessary Thing

 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.