As she steps down from the stagecoach, the dusty New Mexican landscape nearly blinds her, or maybe it’s the wind that wraps her sand-colored hair around her face doing the job, but she smiles anyway.
“Home,” she says, “I found you.”
The stagecoach driver tosses down a frayed silk purse, which once graced the wrist of royalty, and an Army trunk eighty years before its time. Tossing him a coin, she pulls the trunk from the path of the coach, sits down on it, and waits.
Or, alternatively, perhaps she is a modern barefoot wanderer, who didn’t choose New Mexico as the place of her birth, but was pleased enough to make it her home. And maybe she arrived in this world screaming and naked like every other soul and spends her time looking for happiness and love, picking wildflowers, and talking to birds. And when people laugh and say she was born out of time, she just smiles and knows how very in time she is.