Frederick the Night Blooming Cereus
Valerie Hunter
Ray is the one who bought Frederick,
planted him, named him,
used to invite all their friends
to an annual midnight party
in Frederick’s honor.
But Ray is gone now,
has abandoned Amy and Frederick both,
though probably he would’ve
taken Frederick if he could have.
For fifty-one weeks of the year,
Frederick is a bit of an eyesore,
a shaggy giant lurking uselessly
in the corner of the back yard.
Thankfully he doesn’t need much care;
Amy remembers to water him occasionally
if it hasn’t rained in awhile, and sometimes
she gives him a kind word, or says,
“Why so cereus?” because she knows
Frederick appreciates a good pun.
But when May comes
she watches him closely.
Each year she fears his magic will fail,
that he’ll remain an undignified lump,
but then those first ugly buds appear,
bulging tumors amidst the leaves.
They develop rapidly, sprouting
their spiny alien tentacles,
so familiar,
so strange,
and after a decade
of being intimately acquainted
with Frederick’s anatomy,
she knows exactly when to stay up
with her coffee and her thoughts,
pulling the most glorious of all-nighters.
She tells no one, extends no invitations—
Ray might have seen Frederick
as a spectacle to be shown-off,
a freak to be gawked at,
but she considers him
her private magic show,
the flowers blooming for her alone,
enormous and luminous,
with their weird medicinal fragrance
that heals her soul,
makes her believe that the world
is an inexplicably wondrous place,
full of small miracles.
She always goes in before dawn,
avoiding the back yard
for as long as she can afterwards
to hold onto the memory
of that magnificent, glowing Frederick.
Each year, as she shuts the door,
she spares a thought for Ray,
who left her this one perfect piece of beauty,
this midnight marvel
that she knows he must miss.
