A bit late for the dverse Tuesday prompt, but I wanted to take a picture. Hardly worth waiting for since it’s raining this morning and the result is fuzzy.
It was left in the apartment, a succulent with flame coloured flowers, in the bathroom window—the previous tenants’ parting gift. They left nothing of any use like a kettle or cutlery, just this rapturous smile. In my first empty apartment, it sat, the Easter cactus, trying to fill the emptiness with its gaudy presence, all by itself.
It came with us when we moved north, fourteen years later, a splendid specimen by then, spreading like a willow, weighted down by sunbursts of fire flowers. Reduced to a mess of broken segments when small children used it as a feature in a racetrack, it hunched over its wounds like a crippled spider, regenerating enough to face another move, and then another that brought it here, to a climate closer to its tropical origins. After the small cars episode, it lost its shape, grew gnarled and weather-beaten, scarred by small wheels, but it revived in the damp and the heat.
It is old now, raddled and wise, the oldest thing we have, the oldest thing I have, for it kept me company when I was a single student, taking my first steps in a foreign country. Thirty-five years has given it the patina of an antique. Shrunken and reduced, it sits outdoors in the shade now, and the soft rain, patiently waiting for the next move, to the great outdoors, and a well-deserved retirement.
Starburst and sunlight,
the hues, breath of creation—