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Blooming and Dying

Ouch! Ouch. That damned succulent had to go, I thought angrily, after it had poked me yet another time. The sage-colored cactus with its broad, thick leaves had outgrown its xeriscaped space in my back patio. Every time I moved the garden hose or picked up dog poop, it attacked my calves or shins and occasionally, an arm. I was over it. So a few weeks later when I had the yard man over for a little cleanup, I asked if we could move the succulent—which was pretty, I had to admit—to the landscaped section of the front entrance to my house, where it would be out of reach of my body. He said yes, but then Ben says yes to everything I ask. Just the same, I told him to do it, and while he was at it, to move another cactus of which I had become less than fond.
Secretly, I hoped the succulent would die. But wishing it dead made me feel guilty, not just because it was a living being, but also because I knew it was an expensive plant the prior homeowner had thoughtfully included in the courtya…

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