Adios to our beloved Saguaro

When we first discovered our lovely home in the Tucson desert, we especially loved the idea of having a giant saguaro--perhaps eighteen or twenty feet high, complete with three sturdy muscled arms, as the focal point of our garden. Because the previous owners had installed a spotlight, we could enjoy its awesome majesty even in the dark of night. That was 2003.

Soon we noticed that our saguaro had become a cozy bed & breakfast inn for several birds, who used its cavities for spring birthing rites. We often talked of raising the rents, but we never did. Each year the birds returned, without complaint, enjoying their high rise apartments complete with nurseries. They even took pleasure in the little red blossoms which bloomed annually atop our giant, garlands on  its rounded head.

In the last two years the unthinkable happened: our beloved saguaro began to lean. At first slightly, then
more so, teetering to the right, hovering dangerously over a tree and a hot tub. Alarmed, we called an expert. "It's going," he said. "But maybe if we cut the farthest leaning limb we can prop it up."

My husband wanted to take it out immediately. I winced. Oh, no, please. Let's try the prop.

The ugly prop bore a strong resemblance to a mop. We tried to ignore its pedestrian look, hugging our majestic cactus. We were just happy that our saguaro was still standing.

But not for long. In the last few months the heavy winds and rains of the monsoons have sealed its fate. Today I witnessed three strong men, scaling very long ladders, preparing to take out our dear saguaro. When they first arrived, their blades in hand, I ventured out. "Oh, dear," I said, "I am so sad.
Does it really have to go?"

The wide smiling man dressed in denim jeans and blue shirt, turned to me. "This is happening all over town. We've got another one later today if we have time."

It was no use. I padded back into the house, put in my ear plugs, and spent the next three hours writing.
I did not want to hear the saws or see our old guardian's limbs torn down and transported across the lawn and into a truck bed. I could not bear it.

Just now I slipped outside. The recently vacated spot seems glaring in its emptiness. But we have hope. We're ordering a new cactus, very strong, very sure of itself, the man says, in the desert. It's called a
senita.

Senita, you can't arrive too soon.