I was fifteen when we met. You were a gift from Anthony, my first boyfriend.

Truth be told, it was not love at the first sight, at least not on my part. You basically looked strange, a weird, globe-shaped cactus.

You had so many spikes that I was afraid to touch you. My mother did not like you either, she tried to throw you away the first day you arrived. 

 

It took me several weeks to learn how to appreciate you: your graceful form, your proud shape, your vivid colors. I started talking to you.

I sang songs and recited poems. Sometimes you even stirred. I was under the impression that you could hear my voice. I began to grow fond

of you. You quickly became my confidante, my best friend, my silent advisor. Contrary to the rest of my friends, you were never mean nor cruel. You were kind, patient, delicate.

 

One day I discovered your true name: Echinocactus grusonii. Anthony told me that your relatives wear a special nickname in Europe,

they are called "mother-in-law's throne". Please do not mention it to anyone, Anthony wants to keep it a secret from my mother. I found some pictures presenting your family members. I would like to print them out for you, some of your folks are so giant, so impressive.

 

There was this awful morning when you seemed to be dying. My brother brought me a cup of espresso and we poured it into your pot.

A day later, we both witnessed your resurrection. I was so proud of you. A week later, the first flower appeared, a little dainty yellow thing like a star on a Christmas tree. We both agreed it had been a miracle.

 

Now, after three years, you are weak, failing. I feel it. I feel your pain. Do you know I am leaving home in a few weeks? I am moving out. I want to take you with me. You are my friend. Please carry on being alive. Please carry on for me, for us.

Do not leave me.