Cactus Craft

The fabric felt like the memory of a hug. It was soft, warm and strangely alive. That was the magic of her succulents. They didn’t mimic nature, they understood it. And people did too, somehow. These things evoked a smile. A tactility that somehow drew people in. As did their creator.

Her name was June. She asked questions. “What made you stop at my table today?” “Do you have plants at home?” “What’s your favourite shade of green?” – but she was quiet. She’d smile and connect with people with her soft eye contact.

People would answer. Often saying more than they usually would. Her stand was always a highlight for visitors. As was she.

Her stall had a gentle aura. Muted tones. Soft music playing from a portable radio. Her price tags were handwritten in delicate cursive. She placed the cacti in little hand-painted pots. She gave them all names, another detail that really seemed to engag people.

People started to become fascinated by her and her little business. But no one knew anything about her. She’d loved, once. Madly. Messily. She’d watched sunsets from rooftops in Barcelona and from the back of jeeps in Namibia. She’d eaten dinner with strangers who became lovers, danced in sandals until they broke, kissed in thunderstorms, fought for her health like it was a mountain to be climbed barefoot. She’d lost, too. Hard. Her husband, her savings, the version of herself that once thought she had time. She was a version of us all.

Now she stitched things that couldn’t die. Cacti and succulents, eternal in fleece and velvet and wool.

Her favourite part wasn’t selling them, it was the talking. People would come to her booth with stories. Of houses that needed colour. Of children who would love the “squishy plant.” Of mothers who had once gardened in the desert. She’d listen, nod, laugh softly, maybe offer a phrase they’d remember without knowing why.

She was in her late seventies. No one could tell. The streak of silver in her hair looked purposeful, the rings on her fingers mismatched and meaningful. She wore sneakers from the '90s and her style seemed both authentic, understated and subtly eye-catching.

One rainy spring day, under the faded green tarp of her market tent, a man paused. He had a gentle face and a rain-soaked coat. He picked up one the creations.

He smiled “Winifred was my grandmothers name” he said whilst reading the label of his chosen cactus. “These are just so remarkably beautiful.” his voice like slow thunder.

She looked up from her folding stool. Their eyes met. She smiled.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low and warm. “What drew you to this one?”

He continued to study it, turned it in his fingers. Thought for a second.

“It’s strange, I think it was the colour combination of it initially, it has my grandmothers name and she was a colourful person. It just seems like it sort of called me over really.”

She laughed, soft and open.

“Then I think it found the right home.”

They didn’t say much else. But he bought three pieces, asked her name, and said his own. Daniel. A small spark, maybe. Or maybe just a moment.

She would never be sure how long she had. Or if love would come around again, or if this was just another quiet chapter before another wild turn. But that was okay.

Her eyes stayed bright. Her smile remained honest. And her hands kept stitching. That was enough for her right now.

Soft cactus whispers,
She listens more than she speaks
Roots run deep in her.