You Cannot Kill a Cactus by David B Katague
The morning sun filtered through the windows of Chateau Du Mer, casting long shadows of the potted calamansi and bougainvillea that framed the lanai. I stood there barefoot, coffee in hand, surveying the modest garden that had become my sanctuary. At 90, I had outlived the clamor of ambition, the heartbreaks of distance, and even some of my closest friends. But not this garden. No, the garden was still growing. So was I, in ways I never expected.
When Macrine passed, I thought life would shrivel. For a while, it did. The rosebushes I once trimmed for her with precision began to brown. The orchids, so fussy and demanding, refused to bloom that year. But one stubborn plant stood tall—defiant, green, and thorny.
The cactus ( see photos above).
I had never particularly liked that cactus. It was a gift from a well-meaning neighbor, a consolation wrapped in burlap and indifference. “You can’t kill a cactus,” she had said, patting my shoulder. At the time, it felt like an insult to my grief—how dare something thrive so effortlessly when I was drowning?
But months passed. The rainy season came and went. I ignored the cactus. I didn’t water it. I didn’t speak to it like I did with my malunggay and lanzones trees. Yet, it remained. One day, I noticed it had sprouted a tiny bloom—delicate, almost apologetic. A survivor’s salute.
That’s when I began to talk to it.
“You’re not much to look at,” I’d mutter, crouching beside it. “But you don’t give up, do you?”
I started gardening again. Slowly. A few bell peppers and okra plants in repurposed rice sacks. A vine of ampalaya crawling up the side of the trellis. I spent the mornings in the soil and the afternoons in the hammock, shaded by mango trees that had known my grandchildren. I planted more than just seeds; I planted fragments of memories—every marigold a whispered joke from Macrine, every tomato a tribute to Sunday family meals in Marinduque.
Visitors came—nieces, nephews, even curious tourists. Some saw just an old man with dirt under his nails. Others saw what I hoped they’d see: a life still in bloom.
“You should give up that cactus,” one well-meaning balikbayan said. “It’s not even native here.”
I laughed, louder than I had in months.
“That cactus saved me,” I replied. “Besides, it reminds me of something.”
“What’s that?”
I smiled and looked toward the sun, where the cactus now stood in a hand-painted pot, its thorns catching the light like silver armor.
“You cannot kill what refuses to die. Especially something still growing.”
Here is a poem version of "You Cannot Kill a Cactus," inspired by my love for gardening, and my resilience through loss and age:
You Cannot Kill a Cactus
By David Katague
In the quiet hush of morning light,
I walk the garden, soft and slight.
Barefoot on the earth I tread,
Among the living, and the dead.
The roses once she loved are gone,
Their petals lost with each new dawn.
The orchids turned their faces pale,
Refusing bloom, as if to wail.
But in a corner, spined and small,
A cactus stood, despite it all.
No water, care, or tender grace—
Yet life still clung to that rough face.
I scorned it once, that prickly gift,
Left by a friend to help me shift.
“You can’t kill cactus,” she had said,
When grief was fresh and love was dead.
But seasons passed, as seasons do,
And one spring day, a blossom grew—
A shy, pink bloom upon the thorn,
A sign, perhaps, I could be reborn.
So I returned, with hand and hoe,
To plant the things I used to know:
Ampalaya, okra and peppers bright,
Tangled vines that chased the light.
Tomatoes swelled with sunset's glow,
The mango trees began to show
The fruit of days both old and new—
A life remade in morning dew.
Still, guests would scoff at what they saw:
“That cactus, old man, is a flaw.”
But I just smiled and let them be.
They didn’t know what it meant to me.
For grief may wilt and joy decay,
But something strong still finds its way.
Not all who bloom are soft or fair—
Some bear their blossoms under care.
You cannot kill a cactus, friend—
It grows through drought, through bitter end.
Like me, it stands with quiet might—
Still growing, reaching toward the light.
Here's a Tagalog version of my poem “You Cannot Kill a Cactus,” carefully translated to preserve the reflective tone and emotional meaning while honoring the rhythm and flow of Filipino poetry:
Hindi Mo Mapapatay ang Isang Kakto
Salin ni David Katague
Sa katahimikan ng umagang kay liwanag,
Lumalakad ako sa hardin, may haplos ng paglingap.
Hubad ang paa sa lupang mahal,
Kasama ng buhay, alaala’y sumasabay sa hangal.
Ang rosas na dati’y mahal ng sinta,
Unti-unting nalagas, tila naglaho na.
Ang orkidyas ay tumangging mamulaklak,
Parang puso kong sa lungkot ay di na makakalas.
Ngunit sa sulok, tahimik at matikas,
Nakatayo ang kakto—matibay, matalas.
Walang dilig, walang alaga,
Ngunit buhay ay patuloy, hindi nagpapatalo sa gulo ng tala.
Noon ay inismol ko ang tinik nitong taglay,
Isang regalo mula sa kapitbahay.
“Hindi mo mapapatay ’yan,” aniya, may ngiting payak,
Habang ako’y lugmok sa lumbay, puso’y wasak.
Dumaan ang panahon, bagyo’t tag-init,
Hanggang isang araw, tila may lihim na init—
Isang munting bulaklak, rosas ang kulay,
Sa dulo ng tinik, pilit na sumisibol nang sabay.
Bumalik ako sa lupa, may hawak na pala,
Tinanim kong muli ang mga alaala:
Ampalaya’t kamatis sa paso ng sako,
Mga tanim na minsan ay pinangarap ko.
Ang mangga’y nagbunga ng ginto sa sanga,
Kasama ng luha, pag-asang muling nabuhay na.
Sa harding ito, puso ko’y gumagaling,
Sa bawat dahon, pag-ibig ay muling umaalingawngaw, tahimik man ang hangin.
May mga bisita’y nagtatanong:
“Bakit kakto pa rin ang iyong kinukupkop sa tanong?”
Ngiti lang ang tugon, walang paliwanag,
Hindi nila alam ang halagang tunay, ang bigat sa dibdib na bumigat.
Sapagkat ang lungkot ay parang tuyong lupa,
Ngunit may ugat pa ring lumalaban sa gitna ng aba.
Hindi lahat ng kagandahan ay malambot at makinis,
May bulaklak sa tinik, matapang, matiyaga, hindi nagmamadali.
Hindi mo mapapatay ang kakto, kaibigan—
Lumalaki ito sa init at kawalan.
Tulad ko, ito’y nakatindig nang may dangal,
Patuloy na lumalago, umaabot sa liwanag, sa dulo ng araw.
The story and poems above was created with the help of AI technology. For Details on my Cacti and Succulents collections read:
💚https://chateaudumer.blogspot.com/2021/04/my-cacti-and-succulents-in-philippines.html
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