Three cactus clusters, spaced just far enough apart to suggest old grudges and inherited boundaries, gather under the late morning sun.
The leftmost group is clearly the elders—stoic barrel cacti with thick ribs and a don’t-mess-with-me posture. That’s Cousin Dolores, who once ran a roadside tamale stand and still wears her spines like jewelry. Next to her, Great-Grandpa Silvio, who hasn’t bloomed since the Eisenhower administration but insists he’s just ‘resting.’
The center cluster is the middle generation—leaner, taller, a bit more performative. That’s Ray and Lupe, the twins who left for Tucson in ’98 and came back with matching tattoos and a podcast about desert resilience. They’re flanked by their cousin Tomas, who’s always slightly off-center and insists on calling this a “gathering,” not a reunion.
And to the right, the kids. A scatter of tiny prickly pears and cholla sprouts, already forming cliques. One’s got a Bluetooth speaker. Another’s live-streaming the whole thing. They don’t know the stories yet, but they’re absorbing the posture.
No one hugs. But there’s recognition. A shared root system, even if it’s buried deep. And as the sun climbs higher, the shadows stretch toward each other—quietly, stubbornly, like family.
 
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