We left Las Cruces on a Friday morning.
Sophia walked us to the car. Not because we had asked her to, but because she had been standing at her door when we came out with our bags and had followed the walkway to the street in the natural way of someone who was not ready to let the moment of departure arrive without being present for it.
She and Clara had said their goodbyes first, Clara with the particular warmth she produced for people she had decided immediately and without reservation were worth keeping. She had pressed Sophia’s hand in both of hers and said: we’ll be back, in the tone of a statement rather than a promise, which was Clara’s way of making something feel already true rather than merely intended.
Then Clara got in the car and gave us the space of the last few minutes.
S
