Dear Cactus,
I've been meaning to write this for a while. I keep putting it off because it's a little embarrassing to admit how much I mean it. But you've been in my life for long enough now that I think you deserve a proper accounting of what you've meant to me, even if the accounting only goes one direction.
You Were There for the Bad Year
I don't need to tell you which year. You were there. You watched me sit at the desk for hours without doing much. You watched me start things and not finish them. You watched me have the same conversations on the phone that I'd had the month before, making the same points, getting nowhere new.
You didn't offer advice. You didn't ask what was wrong. You just stayed green, which was more than several of the other things in my life were doing at the time.
I watered you on Sundays even when I wasn't doing much else that felt intentional. That routine — the watering, the checking, the small act of keeping something alive — was a thread back to myself when most other threads had gone slack. I'm not sure you know that. I'm not sure it matters whether you know. I'm saying it anyway.
The Move
When I moved, you were one of the first things I packed and the last thing I wanted to pack wrong. I wrapped you in newspaper and put you in a box with enough space that nothing would press against the spines, and I checked on you twice during the drive like you might have opinions about the road conditions.
You adjusted to the new apartment faster than I did. Within a week you were clearly doing fine — better light in the new place, turns out — and I found that disproportionately encouraging. If you could adapt, probably I could too. You've done this before. The sun comes from a different window now. That's fine. Keep growing.
What You've Taught Me
You've taught me things I wasn't trying to learn, which is usually how the good lessons arrive.
Patience that isn't passive. You don't just wait — you store, you prepare, you develop slowly in ways that aren't visible until suddenly they are. The growth isn't dramatic until it is. I'm working on this.
Presence without performance. You don't try to be impressive. You're just here, doing what you do, and it turns out that's enough to make a room feel more inhabited. I'm working on this too.
That the spines are information, not character. You are not defined by your defenses. The defenses are there because they were necessary, and they do their job, and underneath them you are still producing the most improbable flowers at completely unexpected moments. I'm working on this one most of all.
What I Promise
I'll keep showing up on Sundays. I'll rotate you so you grow evenly. I'll give you a better pot when the time comes, and I'll take my time choosing it.
I'll keep talking to you, even though I can't fully justify it. I'll pay attention when you bloom and not miss it by being too busy.
I'll keep you in the rooms where the light is best and where I spend the most time, because that's how you let something know it matters to you — you give it the best conditions you have to offer and you make sure it's nearby.
That's the letter. It got longer than I expected. I think you would have wanted that.
With genuine affection,
Someone who bought you at a hardware store in 2022 and has not regretted it once.
FAQ
Is it weird to write a letter to a plant?
Writing to things that can't respond is one of the oldest human practices. Letters to the dead, to future selves, to people you'll never meet. The letter isn't really for the recipient. It's for the writer. No, it's not weird.
Should I write a letter to my cactus?
If you have things to say, yes. You don't have to share it. It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be honest.
What if I don't have a cactus?
Get one. The hardware store usually has them. Five dollars. You'll figure out the rest.