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First Time
Maya Bernstein-Schalet
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L*STS: an Essay Daily Happening | About & Contents
Lists | Lasts | Losts | Lusts | Lests | Other
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I. Summer
First time breathing in the hot, dry scent of dusty gravel. First time seeing wide open desert sky. First time seeing a saguaro tower over everything, arms outstretched. First time seeing a cricket bigger than the size of my hand, sans one wing, perched in fear on the laurel bark. First time scaring a lizard across the path with my footsteps. First time seeing two saguaros lean in, limbs wrapped around each other. First time pulling hair-thin Santa Rita spines from my pointer finger. First time watching the prickly pears ripen-pink-fat-shrivel. First time feeling the sides of a totem cactus, bracing myself for pain and finding everything smooth, soft, still. First time watching Mia’s paws splash through a desert stream, feeling bewildered at the existence of flowing water here. First time strolling past a javelina baby and its bristling mom. First time watching the sun set through the branches of the mesquite. First time watching a meowing Simona crawl up the jacaranda, monsoon blusters shaking the leaves. First time watching the June bug’s clumsy crawl into a human hand, green edges glistening. First time seeing a double rainbow split the sky after the monsoon rain. First time staining my hands brown with Arizona walnut. First time seeing the stars in a clear night sky.
II. Fall
First time watching a hummingbird buzz in between sunset-sky saguaros. First time stepping outside to a breeze both warm and cool, fresh desert wind and full desert sun all at once. First time seeing the black beaded insides of the tiny pineapples on a barrel cactus. First time seeing a chute of rain fall from distant clouds, gray spheres on the horizon. First time peering down into the river-made hole in the rock of the wash. First time scratching the love bites of kissing bugs, clustered around my knee. First time watching elevation shift saguaro to scrub to rockslides to Aspen. First time encountering the ashy cracks of burnt pines at the peak of Mt. Lemmon. First time seeing hoodoos balance on air. First time getting stung by a creature in the tall grasses of Madera Canyon, an ankle bite that swelled into a red fist the next day. First time seeing a half-charred saguaro, growing and dead at the same time. First time walking Mia under a full desert moon.
III. Winter
First time feeling cold in the desert. First time watching the fruit form on the orange tree. First time picking a lemon and scratching its side, sweet scent imprinted on my fingernail. First time watching the sunlight cast reflective rays above agave pencas, little puddles on the leaves. First time bracing for a frost, bringing all the little cactus pots into the living room. First time encountering a skinny coyote in the dark. First time seeing the wash swell with melted snow mountain streams. First time crunch-stepping in snow on Mt. Lemmon. First time driving west to California, desert morphing outside the window. First time seeing the desert hold its blooming breath.
IV. Spring
First time smelling the flowers of the orange tree. First time watching an ant crawl over little buds on the tip of an ocotillo strand. First time watching a hummingbird land on the tip of an agave penca. First time seeing a baby bunny cowering in the corner of the yard. First time seeing the yellow and red flowers of an aloe bloom. First time seeing the pollen-covered green of a hedgehog cactus flower. First time finding blood-red ocotillo and cactus paddles bathed in puddles of rust in the canyon. First time seeing the road around the corner lined with brittle bush yellow. First time watching Mia touch noses with the newborn calves on Roger. First time seeing baby figs growing on the campus fig tree. First time seeing tiny yellow creosote flowers emerge. First time stumbling upon a tarantula crawling over the sandy wash to reach a stream, its once mighty flow still trickling.
V. Summer
First time seeing saguaro buds pop up green, white crowns emerging days later. First time realizing the mourning doves prefer to perch up there, coo-cooing as they keep watch atop the giants of the Sonoran Desert. First time watching green leaves fade to yellow brown, scorched by sun. First time seeing a diamondback slither out from under the bushes, Mia pulling at the leash, trying to stay on her tail. First time out walking on the day the Graham’s Nipple cactuses bloom, crowns of pink flowers opening to the desert mist. First time seeing the palo verde trees blossom, tiny yellow flowers adorning their branches. First time looking down at my bare feet only to see an upside-down bark scorpion inches away from my toes, legs still twitching. First time observing how, six hours later, the ants have come to eat. First time hearing the thump of a bobcat jumping over the backyard wall, its big paws plodding on the brick. First time opening the door to a blonde tarantula on the front step. First time naming a tarantula. First time naming a tarantula Debbie, who, as it turns out, really likes the front step. First time finding the chewed-out fruits of saguaro on the street, their bright red mouths open to the heat. First time watching the base of the bloomed agave begin to brown. First time encountering a bush burning, smoke rising under the mesquite. First time tracking the satellites across starry sky, wondering how we look from up there, constellations of civilization between sky islands. First time recognizing the fullness of sweet desert night air, lungs reveling it its warmth.
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I moved to Tucson in August of 2023 and am grateful to get to learn how to live here. It turns out wonder can still exist in the flaming shithole of chaos that is now, which is really truly awesome.
Maya Bernstein-Schalet is a writer from Brooklyn who lives in Tucson.
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