the final draft spaced out cover.indd 3
6/4/2020 12:54:32 PM
From the Staff. Spaced Out was born of fleeting daydreams- brief respites from classroom chaos to the places where our minds most like to wander. We wanted to tell a story of adolescence through the subconscious. Where do our imaginations go when we take them off of their leashes and allow them to roam? From the carefree and cheerful, to the dark and melancholy, and ultimately the reflectice and sincere, our aim was to capture these places through the work of Westlake students and turn them into a story that we can all resonate with... growing up. This issue is a swan song to our youth and an ode to childhood daydreams. A celebration of the beauty that we can create when we're
S P A C E D
O U T.
This year, our theme also adopted a second meaning, much more literal than the first. With a global pandemic separating us, this magazine was created almost entirely remotely. Coming to life in our bedrooms and backyards, it was truly made spaced out. This issue explores the art of filling this space with creation. We've curated a playlist, linked on the next page, to help you do just that. As you flip through the magazine, we invite you to listen along with us. Each set of pages has a song attached, and as you listen, read, and enjoy, we ask you to bask in this space. Let your mind wander. Be free. With love,
the staff of
The Final Draft Special thanks to our adviser, Ms. Linda Hopson o whsthefinaldraft.com o Butterflies by Shelby Sperling o
Staff Page.indd 2
6/22/2020 7:00:30 PM
Remembrance. by Anonymous
How do you want to be remembered? When you're gone, what will you leave behind? Kindness, or pain? It seems to be a fair question. But as the years pass, small details of your life will begin to be left out. Warped, even. And, little by little, you'll probably be forgotten. Because it's not a matter of how. It's a matter of if.
Staff Page.indd 3
6/22/2020 7:00:36 PM
03
table of contents.indd 2
6/23/20 2:37 PM
table of contents.indd 3
6/23/20 2:37 PM
Katherine Sheffield
Katrina Stroud
05
Born to run.indd 2
6/22/20 1:02 PM
Anne Saltel
06
Born to run.indd 3
6/22/20 1:02 PM
Katherine Sheffield 07
blue dahlias.indd 2
6/23/20 8:47 PM
a Virostek E ll
08
blue dahlias.indd 3
6/23/20 8:47 PM
S S S S S S S S S S S
SPACED OUT
Reem Hinedi
SPACED OUT 09
rainbow.indd 2
6/23/20 8:51 PM
SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED SPACED rainbow.indd 3
OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT Sebastian Najera
10
6/23/20 8:51 PM
Elean o
r Scot
t
There's a strange fear associated with reaching the zenith. At some moment in our lives, we will have achieved a physical and mental cusp, the culmination of years of experiences, influences, and focused efforts to improve. At that point, we will be the fleeting climax of our own character arc. The most perfect us. To some younger, this may come as a reassurance: do not worry, you still have a way to go. To the older, a nuanced warning that the nights of drunk texts and fast food binges should embrace a new rarity. Regardless of age, it's still concerning, still impending. It's an inevitable conclusion to the years of conscious endeavors to maximize our potential. We will peak if we haven't already. We won't know that split second when it happens. 11
It may just be during your morning coffee routine after a 11-12 Perfect.indd 2
6/23/20 4:39 PM
At l
e ost
long night of sleep, a couple of minutes before we leave for a lecture in the second year of our graduate school career. Or possibly, after our last day at the gym for a few months; who knows if we'll ever be able to bench press 235 again? That could've been our last one rep max for the rest of our life. In fact, that day may be our life's one rep max. And then we're no longer warming up, we're cooling down. If every day of our lives was a remastered album from the day of our birth, adding, removing, and editing songs, we'd produce one album better than the rest. And although we would make some positive changes in the future, we'd never quite capture the same genuine beauty of natural perfection. We'll never be able to go back to that album, and no one 12
11-12 Perfect.indd 3
6/23/20 4:39 PM
13
13-14 From the shore.indd 2
6/22/20 1:33 PM
14
13-14 From the shore.indd 3
6/22/20 1:33 PM
15 Lottie Brown
15-16 Hand and face.indd 2
6/23/20 2:43 PM
Katherine Sheffield
15-16 Hand and face.indd 3
16
6/23/20 2:43 PM
Eileen Helwig by Lorena Chiles
If a snake slithers into your supper
does it want to cause pain, or is it just hungry—
like you?
Pan d by Mina Mashhoon
17
slither spread tfd.indd 2
6/23/2020 8:05:00 PM
the edge of the universe sits silently her slender fingers beckoning you ever nearer you see her pale breath form galaxies before your eyes the foggy mist of creation you swallow it let it fill your lungs and step forward
n dora slither spread tfd.indd 3
the cloud enveloping you
gently like a first kiss or the silent squeeze of a hand you sink deeper and she rests Em m
aN ebe
ker
18
6/23/2020 8:05:04 PM
I hope that dodo birds evolve back into existence I just wanna see Who they are What they do What they wanted Don’t you? They didn’t even have half a chance Dumb pudgy birds, not playing a game but they’re gonna lose They were flightless, fleeing nothing Until men of the sea gobbled them all up Kicked and clubbed for kissing men’s feet Too trusting Passenger pigeons were prettier than a picture but When they passed above, the sky would dull and black out Their cacophonous clucking made the hearing deaf And the deaf shake So seemingly lovelier on dinner plates and lady’s hats, the passenger pigeons stay in the past It’s a cautionary tale, Beauty will kill and poison isn’t brightly colored But I do hope I see you again So I can look into your eyes and see what emotions are in them There are questions I could ask but never get answers for We were never meant to survive, right? Fate had this woven in or was it another example of mortal folly Falling off the cliff when feet were supposed to land Cole Birmingham
19
Extinct 2 copy.indd 2
by Sammy Charboneau Mudd
6/23/2020 7:18:58 PM
Dane Hildreth
Dane Hildreth
20
Extinct 2 copy.indd 3
6/23/2020 7:19:08 PM
I sit up Startled by the shadows Against the pleasant light Of my night-time slumber And I wonder How they got there Despite how I tried With all my might To shove them all away. I stand up And study the streetlights On the other side of My bedroom window I want to go Just far enough away To say I was never here To prove that I didn’t have to stay. But you’ve pulled me with you And we’re sinking on this ship we’ve made Drowning in an ocean Of broken dreams we couldn’t change And it’s the ever present image Of my thoughts that trap me in this cage. And you tell me I can’t escape But it’s just mind over matter An easy remedy So why do I choose you Over my sanity?
21
21-22 Drowning + breathe easier .indd 2
6/23/20 8:55 PM
Ka
te S alt
el
There are times we all must drown to breathe a little easier Lover, do not ask me to hold you under a rising bathtub waterline As bubbles stream from the lips I whisper your name into I will look away My mother always told me There are some things you just don’t need to put yourself through She says we’re all just trying to breathe a little easier Why drown in your own ocean Why go to all the trouble of seducing the moon just to summon the tides against yourself My mother used to always turn the rain stick each time my father left town Rain She’d say Is the closest we’ll ever get to breathing underwater I’d smile, I’d never stopped to ponder who it was That taught me how to swim 22
21-22 Drowning + breathe easier .indd 3
6/23/20 8:55 PM
Shelby Sperling
An n
eS alt
el
23
Portrait spread TFD.indd 2
6/23/2020 6:29:02 PM
I want to see how you perceive me Am I pretty to you Do I look like I have something to say, Something important What is the label you have given me to wear Do I look sad, inconsolable Am I your Medusa, a monster freezing you in place with the fright of my face
a nothing Or worse, do I look like smile that doesn’t g behind the eyes and a hin not h wit e Do ne Ja in Pla say anything me not Me-Nots are called Forget A reminder of why Forget-
I wish I knew what you see that you’re afraid to say I want to see how you perceive me.
24
Portrait spread TFD.indd 3
6/23/2020 6:29:30 PM
Ree
oo bb ss zz cc oo uu nn rr ee ee ss
inedi mH
All I can ask is where Where I am What this place is How did we get here With no ground No ceiling No walls I can’t tell where I am It’s all white
After months After years Who knows how long now It never ends I have no escape Not even death When hunger and thirst are taken When sleep is not an issue All I can do is walk I walk with no possessions No clothes no hair But I’m not cold Or hot
by Ethan Vasquez
Everything is blank Everything is white Am I even moving How can I tell When everything looks the same
s Jame Ru
th
Obscure Zones.indd 2
rd erfo
25
I see
ME in the distance
Sorelle Jackson
And why do I see me
6/3/2020 3:30:01 PM
Obscure Zones.indd 3
6/3/2020 3:30:04 PM
Bok Choy by Julia Felder
ra
aje nN
stia ra aje nN
stia
a Seb
bok choy .indd 2
a Seb
It’s funny How quickly Our happiness Can sour And turn bitter. Within seconds Your heart can fall And shatter. It's funny How quickly Things that Once mattered Don't matter When your world Comes tumbling down. It's strange How the simplest thing Out of place Can bring you to tears Because of the way Something else Is stuck in your mind. And it's strange To you That no one else cries Over the same Little things. And it's awful How much it hurts When you realize Others don't care 27 Like you do
6/22/2020 6:45:31 PM
Dying Thunderstorms
by Rose Furnish
Sometimes the flowers are black and they smell like death but they refuse to wilt. Yet the dreams you carry inside of your heart are all made of ashes. What good will they be in the dark? Will you choose to go on even though you want to burn? Will you choose to let go even though you’re drowning with the weight of everything you’ve ever missed? For if the winds are calling your name after they heard the oceans cry out that you are sinking, then choose to swim before you choose to sing. If all starts to burn do you not think that it is time? Time for you to seek the sun? Do not lose yourself in people that wish you dead. Do not let them paint your heart with all of their sins. Instead, remember all the things that shine bright: the stars and the fire. Let your heart never be too cold to be melted by joy, but let your rage be a stone that is polished by the never ceasing ages. For one day, the earth shall take you in again. It will teach you how to dance in the deserts, how to sing in the storms. And although you once wilted, you will grow anew.
bok choy .indd 3
Grace Mauk
g
Shelby Sperlin
28
6/22/2020 6:45:32 PM
wwww
For Future Reference by Phoebe Wang
ripa
mar a Za
lin Pau
cut me open, count the rings, tell me who i am. something hidden waits underneath my skin. peel back the layers and tell me what you find underneath the flesh and bone.
29
Red String of Fate Spread.indd 2
what do you see? is it me, or is it something else, awaiting my arrival?
6/3/2020 3:38:52 PM
there is a string around my finger i don’t know what it does it doesn’t talk only falls limp against my palm i’ve tried to cut it off not able to make a dent i tried to light it on fire and all i got was burnt i took a hammer to it my finger turned black and blue most days i forget it’s there but sometimes it tightens it cuts off circulation i wasn’t sure i’d miss on those days i wonder why it’s there and why it won’t leave no matter how hard i try
The Red String of Fate by Phoebe Wang
i try to find the other side but i’ve never got to the end and when i tug there’s nothing pulling it back maybe i’ll find the other end one day and maybe i’ll find someone else or maybe someone found it, picked it up and tied it around their finger hoping to find something on the other side or maybe most likely i’ll get to the end of the rainbow and find no pot of gold
Audrey Dunning 30
Red String of Fate Spread.indd 3
6/3/2020 3:39:00 PM
Veronica Mieres
31
31-32 guilt vs sorrow.indd 2
by Lenny Ahsan
6/23/20 4:32 PM
Guilt. That was the strongest of all the curs-
es that plagued her as she threw herself to the ground. It hurt, as her knees and hands cracked against the hard marble floor. It hurt as her chest was deprived of air, and her weight pushed down on it. She would’ve preferred anything else. Would’ve preferred hatred, anger, even pain. Would’ve preferred physical pain over the guilt that took over her body. It was no longer abstract. It was physical.
It was in every bone, every muscle, every vein.
It throbbed in her head, pierced at her back, clutched at her throat. Chains of guilt wrapped around her wrists and ankles, weighing her down.
Drops of guilt rained upon her, soaking her body. It expanded with every inhale and spread with very exhale. And it was no longer oxygen keeping her from dying. It was Guilt. Because she knew that the moment she let go of
Guilt, Sorrow would creep into her body.
And Sorrow is a monster much darker.
With shriller blades, stronger muscles and sharper aim. Sorrow wouldn’t rain, but storm despair upon her. Like a fIood,
He would sweep through her body, leaving nothing but bones and fIesh.
Sorrow’s chains were of gold, unbreakable, heavy gold. They would drag her to the floor, where she’d sink further and further into Him. Sorrow would be unforgiving.
Sorrow would be unending.
So, she breathed in Guilt, drank it like wine. And, like wine, it warmed her through and through. It kept her alive—at least for now. She let it weigh her down, let it wrap every one of its twisted limbs around her. It dragged her further and further into itself. Guilt was not unforgiving. But Guilt was relentless. Perhaps it only wanted to
31-32 guilt vs sorrow.indd 3
spare her from the pain of Sorrow, in its own sick way. And she let it. She let Guilt take the reins. It would drive her forward, push her through even the toughest of days.
But not even Guilt could escape the curse of Sorrow.
He was just around the bend, quietly standing. He hid in the dark gap below her bed, grazing His fingers against her sheets. He was in her closet, pure white eyes blinking. Sorrow peaked through the crack in the curtains, right outside the windows, waiting in the shade of swaying trees. Sorrow was patient, and He would wait. He would caress the back of her neck, sending chills down her spine. He would whisper false words into her ears. He would take her hand and lead her down His path. Sorrow would kiss her cold cheeks, embracing her like a friend. And she’d miss Guilt. She’d missed the quiet madness that came with Guilt, the self-destruction and anguish. She’d miss the lonely nights of hatred and loss. Most of all, she’d miss Guilt’s desire to drive her forward. Its ability to keep her awake, alert, and far—far away from Sorrow. Sorrow had no desire to drive her forward, His only desire was to steal her.
Because Sorrow has only one purpose.
And perhaps, she’d somehow find that purpose. She’d find what Sorrow desperately longed to teach her. The takeaway; the long-lasting lesson of a perverse professor. And He’d leave a bit more than flesh and bones as He quietly crept away. As He vanished into the hole He’d escaped from. Sorrow would, possibly, leave a footprint. Maybe only a dimple. A reminder. She’d always have Him with her, in that small token.
If it was favor or curse, she'd never know. And what now?
What would she do once Sorrow was gone? Good question.
32
6/23/20 4:32 PM
ang hW a r Sa
33-34 Fly me to the moon final.indd 2
6/23/20 2:47 PM
by Wyatt Ingle
Interviews are much more tedious than I imagined. People get it in their heads that attention is good, so having enough attention to warrant an interview must be amazing. When you get to the point of being interviewed, though, you realize the attention means nothing at all. People don't care about you. They only care about your accomplishments. I have never been, nor will I ever be, myself in an interview. "Today, Forbes TV has an exclusive interview with Arman Tehrani, the brilliant mind behind M-Tech," the handsome young reporter tells his cameraman.Turning to me, he says, "It's one hour before your departure to the Moon, Mr. Tehrani. How do you feel?" "Ecstatic. This is the fruition of more than thirty years of my life," I reply. "Mr. Tehrani, many companies have attempted a form of commercial space travel. All have failed until now. Yet you're providing travel to the Moon at a very economical price for consumers. How can you afford to do that?" "I'm not in this for the money," I say smoothly. "I built M-Tech on the idea that anyone should be able to achieve their aspirations. Money stands in the way of dreams for many, many people." "That's noble, Mr. Tehrani, but it doesn't seem like a good business model. How will-" "I said it's not about the money," I remind him. "Yes, I understand, but this can't be sustainab-" "I acknowledge your worries, but we have plenty of funding. Next question, please." "Well, what is the source of your funding?" He insists. "How-" "The funding is there. It will be there for a long To read more scan the QR code. 34 time. Next question, please." 33-34 Fly me to the moon final.indd 3
6/23/20 2:47 PM
Paige Meakin
by Mel Vel
35
35-36 Stars.indd 2
6/22/20 9:56 PM
Caitlin Holleran 36
35-36 Stars.indd 3
6/22/20 9:56 PM
r no
a Ele
tt
Sco
37
Weight of the World Spread.indd 2
6/3/2020 3:44:21 PM
Tattwo
an awardwin animation ning
animation
& stills by
Emma Neb ek
er
The We i ght of the W
or l d
The man s by Anonym tood on to ous p of the m The weigh ountain t of the w orld was o He straine n his shou d and flexe lder d to keep Day in and the sky fro s day out th m falling e man did recognitio his duty w n or praise ithout He looked down on th e city belo people wa w, he look lking, carr ed at the y ing on wit All the wh h th ile the man eir lives in was stuck everlasting in a seemin peace battle gly The man w ished he c o uld join th could not em, but he knew he He often th ought of d ro why it was even worth pping the weight, wo ndering it But the sk y always sta yed up and The man c the day we arried the nt on w e ight of the But who C w o arried the man’s weig rld ht?
Weight of the World Spread.indd 3
38
6/3/2020 3:48:14 PM
untitled
by Sammy Charboneau Mudd
It’s cold outside but people make it warm
So I don’t know whether to take off my skin or not If I take it off, will you walk into it? Will you see gold or simply old bones dyed with sweet sherry
The door was not locked but still we wait Every figure that approaches could free us Another one comes and goes, unaware of our disappointment
Eventually light became grey and I had a lovely thought It was the color of peaches and daffodils and our hands intertwined Every time that it occurred I tried to write it down but my pen forgot the words Details escaped me, ran away to the horizon of my barren mind
Dane Hildreth
39
IFI HAD A TIME MACHINE copy.indd 2
6/23/2020 7:21:27 PM
if i had a time machine by Anonymous
If I had a time machine
I would go back to the past I’d right some wrongs, finish what I wish I could I’d go back to when I didn’t have to worry about life Where the hardest part of my day was going to bed and not getting up When I enjoyed life and everything in it When the social standard was pure and the worst thing you could do was lie If I had a time machine I would spend more time with my uncle I would talk to him more and bond with him I would ask him about his childhood and growing up with my father We would go hunting and build fires together We would be closer than we were If I had a time machine I would go back to when I was happy When I could find joy everywhere and not struggle to get through the day I would soak up everything I could and never take anything for granted If I had a time machine I would go back to when I was whole I wouldn’t make stupid mistakes and push people away but I would care for them I would soak up the warmth and the satisfaction of knowing that I was okay I would tell people how I actually felt and would enjoy the little things If I had a time machine I would fix a lot of things
If I had a time machine IFI HAD A TIME MACHINE copy.indd 3
40
6/23/2020 7:21:29 PM
water
by Varun Jawarani
Mary Elizabeth Potts
Mar y
Eliza
beth P otts
41 47
Water.indd 2
6/22/2020 6:33:10 PM
You probably don’t drink enough water. You just can’t help it. It’s not often that you’ll get sympathy for your dehydrated self, but you suppose that it makes for small talk — although subpar and selfish. You’re aware that you should bring it up less in your regular conversation.
that looks like your ex. You don’t call home, and you feel guilty; you hope, however, that being “so busy” tonight will justify procrastinating yet another phone call.
tum for him and your cheating girlfriend and your toxic friends and everyone else who irks you. It’s a shame that they’ll never learn about your feelings. It’s a shame that Kerry doesn’t know you want that promotion. It’s a shame that you won’t be given the title of “Regional Manager” by next month — and when that doesn’t happen, it’s a shame that you won’t leave.
You probably hold all your confrontations in the shower. It’s your safe space. You thrive there with your imaginary manifestaBut it’s easily relatable. It captures tions of confidence — the our modernist apathy. same confidence that you lack in your life outside the shower. MayAnd so, you drink an insufficient be that’s the reason you haven’t So talk to Kerry. Call your mother. been promoted yet.
Drink some water. Rinse. Repeat. Smile. Drink some water. Stand up for yourself. Stop swiping right on girls who look like your ex. Call your mother and tell her you love her. Tell Kerry that despite the two and a half years you’ve spent under his leadership, you are no longer going to tolerate your undeservedly low salary — that you must be offered that promotion. Exercise. Enjoy your life. When you receive that congratulatory formal letter from your HR Representative, call your mother But you can’t. again. Tell her the good news. Last week, in the shower, you dis- Listen to her say she’s proud of cussed with a hypothetical Kerry you. the options for promotion. You, in a harsh diatribe, declared that you’d leave to a different company if you were not offered a raise within the next month. You established a stringent ultima42
amount of You lack the “go-getwater — and you conter” attitude that Kerry, your tinue to tell your friends about it. boss, expects from his most effective employees. You’d like to You probably don’t call home as inquire — even pressure — about much as you know you should. the next wave of promotions. Your mother misses you every time she sees the family picture But you don’t. on the kitchen refrigerator. It’s been a couple of months since You’d like to refer to yourself as the two of you have talked, and “in the running” for “Regionshe deserves it after all she’s done al Manager” at your upcoming for you. Calling her would be ca- workplace Christmas party. thartic. And yet, you’re scared. You’re scared that in some way, despite all the unconditional love from past years, she’ll be ever so slightly disappointed in you. So you don’t pick up the phone. Instead, you embrace your second box of takeout, lounge on the sofa, and take out the same phone, swiping right on every girl
Water.indd 3
Smile again. Drink some water.
6/22/2020 6:33:17 PM
Andrea Norton
43
The Sleeper.indd 2
6/23/2020 7:03:29 PM
I was tired since it began I was exhausted after it ended I am the lack of face
The Sleeper by Ethan Vasquez
I am the lack of life
To sway To sway upon the breeze Cool air made to feed Has pushed me beyond my will
Amongst rain drops To wash my skin To bathe my limbs My leaves
Stuck yet able My mind, the master My body, the shackled My feet, the sealed
My My My My
I am cleaned and made dirty Not to break But to bend At lightest touch
Birthed in the forest I am a creature of nature Of blossom Of bloom Created from the earth
food is the colors water, the sound home is my skull death, the ground
Will Rhodes
The Sleeper.indd 3
6/23/2020 7:03:42 PM
the corpse and the fly by Tae-Kyung Kim
A fly, its black, bloated belly heavy with cheeses and wines, landed on a corpse. This was not a strange thing, due to its rotund nature, it fell, rather, and upon its descent, it came into contact with the corpse like the embrace of two lovers — that is, gently, and quietly. The corpse didn’t seem to mind — because he was already dead. And yet, as the fly made its pilgrimage down from the milky eyes staring but not seeing and down the calloused lips, in an unusual turn of events, the corpse began to speak. “Go away. You’re bothering me. If you think an opulent feast awaits, don’t bother, little vermin,” cried the corpse with its hoarse and raspy voice, “The trench-maggots and Alpine crows have made sure of that.” The fly hesitated, only for a minute, before continuing its trek back the way it came, crawling up his steep nose and towards his ear, looking down at the chasmic orifice glaring back at it. “You think I come here for opulence, sir?” The fly buzzed, sounding as though it could not believe what it had just heard, “Before you, I stopped by a castle worthy of housing a kaiser, with hills made of mozzarella di bufala, a pancetta drawbridge, and a moat flowing heavy with wine. I doubt I’ll find wine inside you, though. No, little soldier, I come here to eat. And your cheek has a softness no cheese can rival.” The corpse objected, “No! Not me! They must find me — they must find my face at least. My mother awaits me in Surrey. Take him instead! The boy next to me. He’s from the gutter, never seen a single penny in his life. He called the cisterns home before he decided to die in the Dolomites. I have no quarrel with God and his creatures, that being you. Him? The boy? He is an enemy of the state! A spy!” The fly crawled back up — now to his eye, and faced him. “And I, a creature of God, have no quarrel with you, sir. It doesn’t matter if the young man slumped beside you has partaken in a single face of the janusian politics of man. Those words mean nothing to me. Do flowers object to butterflies when they make a morsel of their very heart?” “I’m no flower.” “And yet, what difference does it make? I have flown for less than a year and I’ve met English boys like yourself. German boys. Italian boys. Don’t think for a second that they taste any different than the wine and cheese — than the ‘opulent feast’ as you say. Don’t fool yourself. I have never in my life had the pleasure of having an opulent feast.” The corpse became silent and the fly found its wings to be functional once more. It flew up to the cheek and the jaundiced flesh, like chèvre, jumped and danced at the touch. “Besides,” the fly began, “your left cheek met a bayonet — what damage could a proboscis do to the other?”
corpse and the fly.indd 2
6/21/2020 6:24:49 PM
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AN OPEN LETTER TO CACTI.indd 2
6/23/2020 7:22:45 PM
by Varun Jawarani
Dear You, I wish it was harder to kill a cactus. They’re meant to be the most resilient of plants, reliant on only drops of water and withstanding the constancy of the oppressive desert sun. Cacti serve as a testament to nature’s ability to self-preserve. They’re the epitome of evolutionary survivalism, and I, with the resources to painlessly maintain his life, murdered him out of neglect. I want to apologize to you and him. I know you chose Walter the cactus as a parting gift — a reminder that we would “remain friends.” It then seems unreasonable that I should let one die, with cacti requiring so little maintenance that they’re the botanical equivalent of the house cat. Succulents are domesticated and require little to no exercise or outdoor adventures. Like house cats, they’re independent and almost entirely self-reliant for everything except nutrition. Studies show that some plants are capable of recognizing familial ties with the plants near them and will share their resources accordingly. They’re empathetic. Cacti are the cat plants. But you wouldn’t kill a cat. I wouldn’t kill a cat. Why was it so easy for me to allow the cactus to perish? I wish that the moral obligation to keep a plant alive would be more than just a whim — that I’d feel significant regret in my neglect of living things. When your gift’s last pad became brown and brittle, I shed no tear. It’s unfortunate. I remember you on one summer afternoon, in your dual passions of horticulture and playfully disappointed remarks, told me my thumb was more brown than it was green. You were right then. You still are. I suppose the peace with Walter’s passing comes with a reason. He was the last reminder, a supplicant for my consistent attention, of you. It’s been one week since I tossed your memento into the compost, and one week since I have felt unencumbered with the idea of you. I hope you’ve been doing well. I just started.
Love, Me
AN OPEN LETTER TO CACTI.indd 3
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