Remembering Grandma

Remembering Grandma

A Short Story

By Dana Wagner

“Well, hello there, Spike,” I said, as I lifted the cactus from its sunny spot on my end table. “Time to get you a little drink.”

As I carried Spike to the sink, I noticed that this cactus was in need of more than just water. Spike desperately needed to be repotted; a task I’d been putting off for a few weeks because it’s not a pleasant experience. No matter how carefully one handled a cactus, being speared by a spine was inevitable. I had learned that lesson first by watching my grandmother, and again for myself many times over. 

Thinking of my grandmother gave me the nudge I needed.

“Well, Spike,” I said aloud, “it looks like it’s moving day for you. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Grandma by putting it off any longer.”

My grandmother had been quite fond of her cacti. I remember her having a plant stand full of the daggered little buggers. One time, my younger brother, a toddler at the time, accidentally fell backwards into the plant stand. He had landed his behind in a potted cactus. It was several inches tall and nearly the same in girth. Lucky for him, he had still been in diapers! He had escaped with only a few spines in the back of one leg. 

“Boy did he ever cry,” I finished the story, realizing I had recounted it aloud for the room devoid of life, excepting myself and Spike. 

I laughed at myself, telling a childhood memory to a cactus. I placed Spike on the kitchen counter and went to the garage to gather some supplies. I’d need several items to give my little buddy a proper new home. 

I opened my little cupboard full of gardening odds and ends. Ceramic pots in varying sizes and colors were crammed alongside a small trowel. A second shelf held two previously opened bags; one contained coarse gravel, the other held potting soil. I reached for a pretty mosaic pot of suitable size, shuddering as my hand passed through a spider’s web. Spiders were neither mine or my grandmother’s favorite. I quickly gathered the rest of the items I needed, hoping not to accidentally meet the now homeless spider in the process. 

Returning to the kitchen, I deposited my haul in the center of the kitchen table. I caught sight of Spike on the counter where I’d left him. He looked lonely there, and somehow sad. I didn’t even know a cactus could look sad. Maybe I needed to get out more. Perhaps I’d call a friend later. Human interaction may do me some good. For the time being, though, it was just me and Spike.

“Okay, Spike,” I sighed, “let’s get this bloodbath started.” 

Was it me, or was that cactus standing a little taller now and leaning slightly away from me? Of course it wasn’t, it was my mind playing tricks on me.

“Spike, I’m only teasing,” I reassured the object before me–why I don’t know. “I just mean that I’m going to end up poking myself on your spines.” 

With that, I imagined that Spike exhaled and relaxed his posture a bit. I moved the cactus to the table beside his intended new home. The pot I’d chosen was ablaze in warm reds, yellows and oranges, it seemed fitting for a cactus. The sun streamed through the window and burst through the bits and pieces of willy-nilly glass embedded in the pot. A myriad of colors danced on the pale wooden table as a result.

“Here it is,” I announced, “Your new home. I know that moving is kind of stressful, so I hope you like it.” 

I imagined that Spike nodded his approval at me. I was in the habit of periodically talking to my cactus. My grandmother had always lived by the old wives' tale that one should talk to their plants to encourage growth. Today though, I seemed to be letting myself get carried away, imagining that Spike was responding and all. I reaffirmed my need for human contact, promising myself I’d meet a friend for dinner tonight.

I put some gravel into the bottom of the mosaic pot and layered some soil on top of it. I repeated those layers and looked at Spike. This was the hard part. The part that I knew would be painful.

“Okay, Spike,” I got down to eye-level with my cactus, “it’s time to get you settled in. First I need to put on these gloves and then I’m going to gently move you out of that pot and into your new one. Your spines have really gotten big, I hope you’re gentle with me.”

Gloves on, I sprinkled the soil in the mosaic pot with just enough water to dampen the top. It was good to encourage roots to take hold by enticing them with a drink straight away, or so I’ve been told.

I inverted the terracotta pot, cradling Spike’s head in my gloved hand. So far, so good. I gently shook my little pal free of his old home. I balanced Spike in my palm as I placed the old pot on the table, swiftly placing my newly empty hand along Spike’s side to steady him. Usually, this is the point in which I get speared by a spine, right through my glove. I glanced at the cactus in my hands and saw that its spines were lying flat against its body, rather than protruding outward.

“Oh, no! What’s wrong?” 

I’d never seen such a thing. Heart pounding, I made quick work of placing Spike in his new home, being as gentle as possible. I felt tears welling in my eyes, at the thought of killing off the very last of my deceased grandmother’s cacti, the only one I had been entrusted with.

“Please, please, be okay,” I coaxed as I patted the soil lovingly around the base of the cactus. 

“I need you to be okay,” I pleaded as I sprinkled water over top of the potted porcupine, letting it run down the plant and onto the soil. 

A tear slipped free, and the most amazing thing happened. Spikes needle-like spines pulled away from his body and stood fully extended. It seemed that he had taken immediately to his new home, nestled cozily in his warmly colored pot.

“You’re okay! Oh, Spike, I’m so happy,” I sniffed.

I realized then, that I had asked the cactus to be gentle with me. Spike had complied. 

“Thank you, Spike, for being so kind.” I said softly.

 Maybe there was something to that old wives’ tale after all. Maybe, just maybe, Spike and I had become true friends. Perhaps he needed my comfort in grandmother’s absence just as much as I needed his. 

I decided to stay in for dinner that night. I left Spike on the table so we could have dinner together. When I retired to my chair to read, I placed Spike beside me on the end table-right where he liked it. I snuggled under the afghan my grandmother had made, and read aloud to my dear friend, Spike. We were content together, Spike and I, and we knew that grandma was right there with us in that perfect moment.