12. Just because it looks fuzzy, that doesn’t mean it is #3
As we begin walking toward Papago Park to pick up the hiking trail, I pull water and sunscreen out of the small backpack I’ve been carrying, taking a sip of the water and spraying all my exposed skin with sunscreen before offering both to Forrest. He takes the water, but declines the sunscreen, just like he did last time I reapplied.
I basically had to chase him with it to get any on him back at the car when we first arrived.
“You’re going to regret that,” I warn him, again, but he just shakes his head.
“I’m alright,” Forrest insists, stubborn as ever. This is another youngest sibling trait, I think. “Besides, the sun is setting anyway.”
“Let’s get going then,” I say, as we start on the short trail up to the rock.
There are already other people around the rock and on the hill, facing west to watch the sunset.
It doesn’t take long to reach the aptly named Hole-in-the-Rock, its red sandstone peppered with eroded holes, some big enough to stand in.
We head for one, looking out to see Phoenix framed in the enormous oval opening.
Even with the clouds we’ve had today, bright, golden streaks of light stretch across the horizon, winning their battle with cumulonimbus—or whatever kinds of clouds those are. That’s the only type I know the name of.
Like an enormous paintbrush dragged its colors across the tops of the distant mountains and into the sky, a layer of burning red fades into orange and glistening gold, while the more persistent clouds become a deep purple.
There’s nothing like an Arizona sunset. And this view really is particularly stunning.
“Wow,” Forrest breathes beside me, and I expect he’s thinking the same thing. “This is something else,” he says.
“Welcome to Arizona,” I say back before I feel his hand slip into mine.
My tactile man.
I want to lean into him, tuck myself under his arm like I used to. It almost hurts to hold myself still as I remind myself this is friendship. My heart stutters in my chest anyway.
I look over at him and see the rainbow of colors from the sky reflected in his eyes and across his skin. I turn back to the vista before us, and we enjoy a familiar comfortable silence as the sun moves lower on the horizon.
When it’s time to go back to the car, I can’t help but think about how good of a day today has been.
But that goes to hell in a handbasket when Forrest loses his footing trying to avoid a toddler who was darting between us and stumbles sideways, heading dangerously close to a—
“Forrest, no!” I use all my willpower to keep from shouting as Forrest hops on one foot beside a cactus that looks like it’s covered in thousands of long hairs standing on their ends.
I feel like I’m watching him move in slow motion until he finally regains his balance without falling over. The mother who snatched up her child a second later is profusely apologizing beside me.
“It’s all good. I didn’t touch it!” Forrest whoops with triumph, throwing his arms in the air and sealing his fate. The mother and I gasp in tandem.
“Agh!” Forrest shouts, leaping away from the cactus beside him, a section of the plant stuck to his side.
“Don’t touch it. No sudden movements,” the mother instructs, reaching toward him with her free hand, palm out, like she’s approaching a wild animal.
Forrest’s eyes go wide, and he looks over his shoulder, like he expects to find a bear lurking there.
In Arizona, it’s coyotes or javelinas you’ve got to look out for, but neither is here now.
It’s just us, the other people headed to their cars who are now wincing for Forrest’s misfortune, and that cactus.
“Do you have a brush or comb? Something you can fit between the cactus and his side?” the woman asks as she passes her son off to a friend, and I nod.
I motion for Forrest to come toward me and away from the cactus, and he shuffles forward, one arm still awkwardly held out to avoid sandwiching the barbed cactus piece between his side and biceps.
I rifle around in my bag until I find my wide-toothed comb—grateful I always carry it in my cosmetics bag—carefully wedging it between the spines at the woman’s instruction and wiggling it until I pry the chunk of cactus out of Forrest’s skin and can fling it back into the brush.
“Thanks,” Forrest says, gingerly probing his side with his fingertips. He’s lucky he was still wearing that sweatshirt.
The woman apologizes some more for her son, and before we part she tells us to keep an eye on the spot for infection or hidden spines.
“I could have sworn I stopped before touching it.” Forrest’s brow is drawn together in confusion, and he’s still probing his side with his fingertips. He winces, and I expect it’s pretty tender.
“You probably did for all intents and purposes,” I say, looking over at the plant.
“That’s a jumping cholla. We also call it a teddy bear cholla—because it has so many spines that it looks fuzzy.
It’s kind of like you frightened it when you shouted or moved too quickly, so it…
well, it jumped, sort of. The tiniest breath of a touch, and that thing will stick right into you. ”
“I frightened it?” Forrest repeats in disbelief, throwing a glare at the cactus fuzzball over his shoulder. “I got attacked by a teddy bear plant?”
“Arizona is a complex lady,” I say with a shrug. “And I did warn you she bites.”