Thursday, January 28, 2010

My mom mailed me a cactus.

I got it today. It has a few casualties: some missing spines. Jack gave it to me from the top shelf of the mailroom. He knew it was probably my cactus because the box was covered in, and filled with, dirt. Shannon and I had an emergency rescue mission for it. I convinced her to steal some dirt from the poinsettia on the window sill in the Union. There were still gracefully uneven lines of snow on the window panes. She walked up to me with a fistful of dirt and the most sheepish look I've ever seen on her face. The cactus is sitting in its little clay pot on the coffee table next to my feet. Out of all the people who have stopped by my couch to talk to me, not one has asked why I have a cactus on the table. I was holding the cactus in my hand when I ordered my hot chocolate. I always feel as though I'm admitting how childish I am when I ask for whipped cream on my cocoa. I wink at the barista every time I do. It's sunny today, and the light is making patterns in creative angles all over the floor and bookshelves in the library. I like how the snow sparkles like stars.

Did you see all this beauty today? Or am I the only one?

*Revised: Samuel Ashmore asked me about it.

Notice these things.

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