Cactus story

I really love cacti. There’s one that has been with me for over 30 years. Sometimes, it feels like it’s quietly watching me—looking out the window with me, listening to music, and even watching me dance.

It was once no bigger than my pinky finger. I saw it peeking out from a pile of trash, as if asking me to take it home. At first, I walked past it, but then turned back, picked it up, and placed it by my window.
It has bloomed white flowers and even had baby cacti, which always brings me joy. All I do is give it some leftover rice water now and then. As it grew larger and started to bend, I tied it to the wall with thread and changed its pot to support it better.

One day, maybe someone noticed my love for this cactus. They had thrown out a small, old-fashioned baby cradle made of thin wire on the side of the street. It was so cute—I picked it up. While moving the cactus into the cradle, I accidentally broke off two baby cacti.
“I’m so sorry for hurting you,” I whispered. I carefully placed it in the cradle and haven’t touched it since.
The cradle has wheels, so it’s easy to move into the sunlight. Now it sits quietly by the window, like a baby sleeping peacefully.

About ten years ago, a friend gave me another cactus, about the size of my hand. This one doesn’t bend—it grows straight up, and fast. It grew so tall that it finally touched the ceiling. My husband said, “At this rate, it’s going to break through the roof. Let’s just throw it away.” But I said, “How can we throw it away? It greets me every morning with fresh new growth—it’s alive!” Still, my husband brought out scissors, ready to cut it. I couldn’t bear to watch. I went to another room and whispered, “I’m sorry, cactus. I’m really sorry.”

Suddenly, my husband called out, saying it was hard to swallow.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” I shouted from the other room. He said that while cutting the cactus, white sap started flowing out—like the legendary white blood from the neck of Ichadon (an ancient Korean figure). Out of curiosity, he tasted it. “What?! That cactus dared hurt my husband?!” I rushed out. His face was red. “Are you okay? Why would you taste the sap while killing the poor cactus? Of course, it’s poisonous! What are we going to do?”

The next morning, his face looked like the Hulk. His eyelids were so swollen they covered his eyes, his cheeks puffed out, and his whole face was bright red. I searched Google. Many cacti are poisonous if eaten. They say someone determined to die could drown even in a spoonful of water—but this cactus almost really killed someone. I thought it was a kind, gentle plant, always greeting me with joy despite its sharp spines. But now I realize—it had been holding poison all along, right next to me…

As I poured rice water into the cradle for my beloved cactus, I said,
“Do you have poison inside you too?
As long as I live, I won’t hurt you. So let’s live peacefully together, okay?” Maybe it understood—its flowers looked bright and happy, as if smiling.

People, animals, even plants… maybe it’s natural to carry poison when you’re hurt. I remembered what a Korean doctor in Fort Lee once said: “Many plants are toxic—you should always cook them before eating.”