Camel sore and sand blasted, I collected my things. Weary and beaten, the Sahara made me beautiful.

She was from Tel Aviv, as old as time, as young as spring. She brought nothing but a tee-shirt and a toothbrush. She caught me, wrapped me in her joy, touched me with her tender grace.

"Your hair is beautiful," she said."Thank you," I replied. "I just washed it in the desert." She laughed, the thrill of adventure in her wise open heart. Tousled her own tight grey curls.

"You need to drink some water." I never knew at 52 I would appreciate being mothered, but I did and I told her so. Every cell in her body glowed with the recognition. Later she told me she didn't have any children, or a husband.

She fell in love in Morocco. Yes, she was wide open, but that didn't mean everything was. At dawn she left nothing, but footprints in the sand.