Saguaro

What I love most about Arizona is the saguaro cactus. Its beauty--stretching like long fingers in the sky-- it can reach about 50 feet. They're haunting and enchanting, holding birds in their holes, living for as long as 150 years; they whisper stories, have lived many lives. At night flowers burst open, closing at  noon. Of which, bats come and go to feed.

Which seems to be the story of my relationship to Arizona: coming and going. A whirlwind. A blur of faces. A plethora of memories and people. All of who are a part of my childhood. And so when I see them now (I visited during Thanksgiving), I'm reminded of rocks. Hot suns. Red fingers. Of sliding down red rocks in Sedona. Of polishing rocks with my great-grandma. Who now suffers from Alzheimer's. And can't remember those rocks that I've held onto. Made necklaces out of. The smooth turquoise textures. The beads. The hot days spent sifting through rock gardens, mountains. Of cracking open rocks with hammers. To see the wonder as they're split open: lines of life, images of faces, shadows and sparkles. Since a child, I've made many small trips to Prescott Valley to visit my grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles.  I can remember driving with my family from Wisconsin to Arizona. Those long days spent staring out the window, losing myself in dark slopes and cacti curving upward like arms, opening like flutes. But all of these trips always fold together. Daylight and nightfall. Conversations and adventures swerve like dreams. I'm coming and going. I'm there. Gone.

I'm trying to bring this alive to my children; to pass this wonder on. To give them these stories. To let them live them; to make their own. Already the places and faces are changing, moving. My great grandmother doesn't remember me; doesn't know them. She calls Amaya "blondie" and wonders who this small child is. Her jaw clicks, moves up and down without sound. She's already left this space.

After a saguaro dies, its woodlike ribs can be used to build fences, furniture, roofs. Those holes that birds lived in can be found among the dead.

Which reminds me of what we take; what we leave behind.