This red one, at home, was given to me as a cutting back in Santa Fe, one Christmas Eve—just a slip of a thing. That was the last party I remember with family friends a few doors down Sombrio Drive, a snowy night with piñon in their fireplace and bowls of good posole made with crumbled chili pods, oregano, and pork. The cactus has had its good days and its bad, blown always by the winds of change. It was unsettled for a year or two after its move to California; delightfully happy three years ago to find a sunny spot on its new shelf, among the Bonnard books under the octagonal port-hole in the Thendara hallway. It almost didn't bloom at all last year, when one of our dear friends—one of its family from Sombrio—died, as if it knew something was wrong with the world.
I must tend it more tenderly this year, and see if it perks up. It didn't seem to like spending the summer outside, though it didn't mind being trimmed back. Its red is glorious, and should be encouraged.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Christmas Cactus (Red)
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