The University of Chihuahua came. Guillermo wasn’t crazy; he was a visionary. They set up a station on my ranch. They named me honorary director. The students learned from their notebooks and from my calloused hands.
Four years later I met Carlos Henderson, a widowed American professor. We fell in love slowly and maturely. We married in front of the wall, with a photo of Guillermo in my bouquet. We lived eight happy years until he passed away peacefully, asleep in his armchair.
Five years later came the hundred-year drought. Cracked fields, dry wells. Lucía, my granddaughter a geologist, found a note in Guillermo’s notebooks: deep fossil aquifer under the ranch.
We opened it. Crystal clear, icy water, enough to save the valley.
“It’s not mine,” I told the people. “It belongs to the mountains. Use it with respect.”
We saved crops and livestock. San Isidro was reborn.
At eighty-two, I couldn’t get up anymore. Lucia took my hand.
“The wall isn’t meant to separate,” I told him. “It’s a stone embrace. Be stone to protect, water to love. And always open the door to those who are cold.”
I left with a smile, knowing that Guillermo and Carlos were waiting for me.