There were deep wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and across her forehead.
They didn’t seem to be wrinkles of worry that he’d seen on his mamí and abuelo’s faces as they worked the farms and fields of small southern towns.
No, they seemed to be wrinkles of kindness that come from years and years of loving and hoping, the kind you get when you cradle a baby in your arms and rock her deep into the night, the kind that come when you study the small, quiet things in the world and wonder why so few people see or hear their beauty.
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