The cactus farmer rarely wore gloves to do his work. When he was a boy his father had taught him how to walk among the spines in order to prune and tame the massive succulents. His mother had taught him how to reach through the rows to move the smaller pots stored in their greenhouse as well as the ones that decorated their home.
When he was younger he remembered the pain of getting stuck again and again trying to mimic his parents’ grace. His mother had more patience with his foibles than his father. She was free with the kisses and bandages but neither tried to protect him from the inevitable painful encounter. Both seemed to share the same philosophy that the only way to learn to love the fruit was to be able to bear the pain.
And his family did indeed enjoy the fruit. Or rather, the vegetation, since very few of their cacti actually bore anything that could be consumed or sold. No, he watched his mother, father, and eventually his sister and brothers, all learn to love and move and live among the often towering, sometimes tiny, but always dangerous rows of beautiful Caryophyllales.
Katenotkatherine 