Saguaro cacti represent Willa’s perception of herself. Willa’s backyard saguaros are “the only things in Arizona she felt a deep attachment to” (115). Before leaving for Baltimore, Willa visits these plants, admiring “their dignity, their endurance” (115)—qualities Willa most aspires to herself.

Later, when Peter brings Willa a small saguaro from the hospital gift shop, Willa is taken aback by its size: “Ordinarily, they’re huge. Twenty or thirty feet tall, at least” (145), she says “protectively, almost defensively” (145). Willa has always imagined these cacti as independently powerful: “Saguaros were calm and forbearing; they had stoically weathered everything from Apache arrows to strip malls” (145). Now, she must confront the fact that even these hardy plants need nurture and care before they can thrive. Willa has always tried to be as enduring and calm as these giant cacti, facing hardships with dignity and fortitude. But her identification with these desert plants ignores their literally prickly nature—no saguaro can be touched, much as Willa has built herself a protective shell of martyrdom.

When Willa gives Cheryl instructions about caring for the small saguaro, she explains that “[i]t can stand a lot, remember; it doesn’t need to be pampered” (278).