The Light Within

I said goodbye to a lot when I left Santa Fe, but I am not pining for sage, chamisa, piñon, and blue corn. I stayed too long.

The angel I miss.

I don’t miss the guilt. Her steady, sad gaze watched me come and go each day, from the eight-foot-by-three-foot painting propped against our garage wall.

Why did it live in garages for ten years? First, because my modest little post-divorce house did not have the free wall space it required. After I moved into a house big enough for me, my kids, my soon-to-be wife, Laura, our art, and her two dogs, the walls were had too many windows, letting in the fabled New Mexico light.

The Sangre de Cristo (Blood of Christ) mountains define Santa Fe’s northern crescent. They glow red at sunset. The same light paints the valleys gold, and all the different shades of beige adobes, too.

Laura and the kids thought the painting was creepy. I thought about bringing it to work. But it didn’t fit in our cars, and I couldn’t see hiring someone with a truck when I knew we’d be moving out of state soon. Laura and I were both ready for something new.

When the man I sold the painting to asked about its provenance, I said, “I knew the painter, Antonio Roybal.”