Standing Under the Sun

She stands, alone, in the vast and arid Mexican soil. The air is hot, the sun pushes down, and the breeze hasn’t been around for centuries. She stands there, in the Mexican land, and the silence makes the sun even more powerful, and she wonders if someone was around perhaps it wouldn’t be so hot, or she wouldn’t think of the heat, but there is no one around and all she can hear is the sun burning her leaves.

Lost in the Southwest of the United States, she tries to calculate how many years have passed since the days became a repetition of themselves. How many years since her leaves stopped feeling young, and how long since her sharp spines bore themselves to a peaceful sleep. Suddenly, however, the larvae remind her of her beauty, of her richness, of her youth. And, she is not lost anymore, she is where she has to be.

In the tropical areas of South America, she rests, while the world far from her moves at an impatient speed. Her leaves dance, and her thorns become flexible arms moving rhythmically. She does not know of being a “century plant” or how sweet her nectar is, she only knows the rhythm of her leaves, and the joy of her thorns.

In the dessert, in the sand, in the abandoned scenery of a western film, she finds herself at home. The seasons pass, the weather changes, the air around her brings new waves, and there she is, stoic, still, intact. If things change, she is not affected, she is not surprised, her leaves welcome the sun, and her spines protect her from the past.

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