The Ancestors Stand
We have stood here, side by side, since long before the roads and roofs, before the fences cut across paths worn deep by hooves and paws. They call us saguaros now, these beings who come and go so swiftly. We have always been ancestors, guardians, and silent watchers to our ancient kin. Our arms are raised in greeting, sheltering those who come to us—bats and birds, bees and people—all our kin beneath this vast sky.
The eldest among us remembers when the stars were clearer, when quiet filled the nights, disturbed only by the howl of coyotes or the distant rumble of summer rains. Her many arms carry the stories of generations, whispers from the Tohono O’odham, who speak of us as their ancestors. We were once human, they say, and perhaps we still carry their dreams. We stand tall, our roots deep in this earth, drawing life from the monsoons, blooming flowers to feed those who depend upon us. Our fruit is sweet, our seeds scattered by desert kin who carry our future.
We watch. We watch as the sun scorches harder and longer each year. Our kin who once thrived here, the small, swift creatures, the mighty owl families nesting within our bodies, find it harder to stay. One of our cousins, standing just beyond, fell last summer. Her body, once proud, now nourishing the soil, feeding new life even in her passing. The smallest among us lost an arm, a wound bleeding dark sap, a tear shed for the changing world.
Humans build their homes closer now, disturbing soil and seed alike. Yet, they spare us not from kindness, perhaps, but from recognition. Our forms add value, they say, our presence desired for beauty, forgetting we offer more than a silhouette against a sunset sky. Beneath our spiny exteriors, we hold water, shelter, food, and life. We offer ourselves entirely because that is our purpose.
The middle ancestor speaks softly to the wind, reminding us that change has always been. Yet, this Anthropocene—this human-made era—challenges us all. Our slow, deliberate lives are not meant for swift adaptation. Still, we remain, standing firm and resilient. Our DNA, quietly adapting, holds stories of survival. The scientists know this; they study our resilience, marveling at our persistence through drought and heat, through changes that come faster than rain.
We weep silently for lost kin, displaced friends, and lands scarred and reshaped. But we also work. We stand as shelters, our branches open wide, a sanctuary for the Gila woodpecker raising young, for bees gathering pollen, and for bats seeking nectar beneath the moonlight. We stand witness, not passive but active in our care. Our roots intertwine beneath the surface, holding soil, moisture, and life; all of us are interconnected in ways humans sometimes forget.
We will continue to watch, nurture, weep, and stand. We are ancestors, not merely saguaros, and our work, like our arms, extends ever outward, touching the lives of every kin around us. We will remain here, sentinels in the desert, telling our quiet story to anyone who chooses to pause, listen, and perhaps remember what it truly means to care for kin.
