Grandma gambled and knew if she lost she would never recoup the cost.
Sage burned in the silver container in the corner; amethyst and orange quartz stones neatly circled the photograph of him and her embracing on the rocky shore of Paracas Bay.
Nobody had bothered to tell them back then on that windy day in 1942 that love was just a mirage.
He nor she would have ever believed it would all eventually crumble like the Incan ruins beneath their foreign feet.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2022
Jenny Grace's Poetry and Creative Writing Techniques 