This little cutie-pie is what we used to call a Christmas cactus. The flowers are lovely, and it doesn’t have a sharp edge anywhere. We had one of these when I was growing up. As the name implies, it was supposed to bloom at Christmas, but ours preferred the springtime. We took to laughingly calling it our “Easter cactus,” and pondered metaphysically on what sort of circadian or astronomical forces could have been the source of its apparent confusion.

This year, our “Christmas cactus” put on a great show for Thanksgiving, yawned and stayed in bed for Christmas, and is now up and smiling for Valentine’s day. Doesn’t matter; I don’t try to tell the plants what to do.

A cactus could work as a metaphor for many things to do with the human spirit. Years ago when we went to Arizona to visit my in-laws, we first flew to Phoenix, and then drove the long road to Yuma. During the visit, Jon (who always seems to be eight years old in these recollections) passed the time by counting Saguaros, with Brooks (age five) chiming in on the hundreds.

Saguaros grow as tall as trees, with a few trunk-sized limbs pointing skyward. They look vaguely humanoid, and as part of my unrivaled need to anthropomorphize every living thing, I ascribe patience, humility, and endurance to the saguaro. The Christmas cactus, on the other hand, I imagine to be just as sweet as apple candy, but always late, and always losing its purse.

When I was in elementary school, I came home from a Girl Scout meeting with some chicken plants. I don’t know if chicken plants are actually cactuses (cacti? Darn Latin class!) or not, but these looked the part. They were succulent, needed the shade of a larger plant, and would sprout babies so that they resembled a hen and some chicks. Metaphor? Maybe a family just doing what families do when not subjected to harsh lighting.

One more cactus-y plant to mention. I call him Spike, and my son Brooks currently looks after him. We love him, even though he can’t yet love us back.