Santa Fe can’t help but be beautiful, even in her grief at the end of the day.
The end of my visit.
The doors feel like a boneyard in the low light, and I feel that, too. Ornate - exquisite - evidence of the storms they have held out, the weather they have survived.
(If only I could see the beauty of my own character in the same light.)
Yesterday a friend told me that I’m like Santa Fe in the following ways: quaint, unassuming, vibrant, sweet, savory, and wise.
Ok, then. I’ll take it. Try it on. You can have your perfect beach girls, I’ll proudly be a girl of the desert, with windy hair and freckles.
More beautiful for the storms I’ve weathered.