My Gump Ride

“Somebody later told me it gave people hope.”

-Forrest Gump

hope (hōp) noun: to cherish a desire with anticipation.

In 1989, I bought a mistletoe cactus before the hubby and I were married. We were living in a one-bedroom apartment in Astoria, Queens and spent weekends trying to get away and explore the city. One particular weekend, we went to one of the botanical gardens in New York. I don’t remember if it was the Bronx or in Brooklyn, but before we left I picked up a cactus from one of the vendors. It was much smaller than it is now and had grown so big I had to transplant it into a large pot several times. Then Death started knocking on doors, one by one taking our loved ones away. Slowly, I watched that cactus die, its needles dropping like rain on a funeral. I had that cactus for 25 years. It represented the life I’d created with the hubby and it had become representative of the life being sucked from our bodies; that’s when I finally took over. I gently ripped the ailing plant from its soil, carefully holding its frail roots and replanting it into a tiny little pot. I put it on the kitchen window sill to give it lots of sun and watered it when needed. Slowly, I watched that cactus regrow and carefully transplanted it into a pot slightly bigger. Within time, I was able to move it to an even bigger pot where it continues to grow as best it knows how. This is hope.