ARTISTS’ BOOKS
In my Ama and Grandad’s backyard, a cactus stands tall in a pot it has far outgrown.
Its height now well surpasses the eave of their one-story house.
Every day, as the sun descends, the cactus’s shadow is cast upon the house, layered with dancing reflections from the pool’s surface.
There has never been a time when it hasn’t watched over me, living and growing alongside me, becoming a part of my family, another member.
The cactus has been witness to what we have witnessed. It has scarred as we have scarred, and grows as we grow.
A cactus’ wounds never truly heal, only scar over, becoming a part of the plant, an account of survival and persistence.
TWO
In the desert of Southern California, in 2005, not long before I was born, my Ama and Grandad were gifted this cactus.
Both sides of my family immigrated from Australia to the U.S. in the 70s and 80s.
When family friends made the decision to move back to Australia, this cactus was rehomed to my dad’s parents’ backyard.
People question my Ama’s choice to keep it. When I ask, she quickly states, “because I like it,” as if that is a silly question.
Its presence in my life is a direct result of migration between two faraway continents.
Its history forever shown in the imperfections of its surface, becoming symbols of adapting to a new home.
THREE
In Australia, my great-grandparents, my Ama’s parents, lived alongside a large cactus for almost four decades, moving away from it in 2005.
No cacti are native to Australia, but the one outside their house in Cooranbong grew as tall as a tree.
It was a landmark, a directional cue, and a backdrop for family photos.
Without knowing, caring for cacti has become a familial tradition, passed down from generations and across continents.
Now entangled with our family, these plants reflect our care for one another and the environments we call home.