I spent the fourteenth summer of my life begging. In the aisles of the supermarket I found I needed to be the mother of a cactus, My own mother said plants were a bigger responsibility Than one would first assume. In the overwhelming bustle of the summer fair, I decided I needed to become a parent to a baby rabbit. My mother warned me that I could not handle the responsibility. I became the proud owner of both, Pouring every ounce of myself into each. But, I seemed to have mismatched ideologies on water. The cactus drowned, And the rabbit dried up. My mother was right. A lot of things died that day.