They used to call me Cactus. I was tall; a desert native.
They could find me dusty, dirty, outside from sun up to sun down. The owls found their home in me, hooting late into the night and the mice made their bed at my feet.
They saw me stare into the dark night sky speckled with stars, arms lifted high above my head in praise. They hugged my strong core, praised my nimble structure.
They would laugh joyfully when they found the gecko on my arm and were delightfully surprised when they felt the prickles of my legs.
They knew they could find a camera wherever I was. The sun would hit me just right, the nuances of my body visible in the desert sunlight and eternally etched into a frame of film.
They depended on my strength and ability to hold my own, to survive in drought, to provide for other desert dwellers.
They used to call me Cactus; now I'm just Amanda.
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