Resembling a cactus

The cactus, covered in sharp spines with no one to lean on, stands alone. It waits only for water, slowly turning its body toward the sunlight.

One day, I saw a tiny cactus—no bigger than my pinky finger—peeking out from a pile of trash. Someone had thrown it away while moving.

It looked at me as if saying, “Please take me with you.”

At first, I walked past. Then I turned around and picked it up.

It was dry and rough, but I brought it home and placed it by the window in my studio.

I thought of a friend’s husband, a kind and skilled doctor. He once took a bouquet of flowers out of an airport trash bin, saying they were still worth saving. He believes every life—flower or human—is worth saving. I respect him deeply for that.

I also remembered my own husband saying,

I remembered my husband's grumbling, 

"You kill plants just by looking at them."

But I thought, Even this cactus, thrown away like trash, will find a way to survive on its own.

There’s a black-and-white photo of my husband as a child. He’s standing under the shade of sponge gourds hanging in the garden.

He grew up on the edge of Seoul, where it still felt like the countryside.

His family grew vegetables, played in flower beds, and even caught and ate grasshoppers. No wonder he still misses plants, even while living in a big city like New York. His heart is fresh and kind—just like the soil and flowers of his childhood.

But me? I don’t even remember touching real dirt. I grew up in cement apartment buildings. I never even tried to grow plants because I was afraid they would die. Better not try than kill something, I thought. Only a cactus, something that doesn’t need care, seemed okay.

I left the cactus alone for a long time by the window. One day, I noticed it had grown as big as my thumb. It was staring at me, as if trying to say something. I gave it some water, almost as an act of kindness. It brightened. It looked more alive. No one had cared for it, yet it had survived. Now, with just a little bit of love and water, it started growing faster. Its body turned to follow the sun, and when it bent too far, I tied it gently to the wall with string. Feeling sorry for it being alone, I bought more cacti—gave it some friends. I began playing music for them. I looked forward to watering them. Sometimes I even talked to them like they were people.

I realize now—I’m becoming more like that cactus. Covered in spines, looking out the window, waiting for water, slowly turning toward the light.