Day 8: Solola, Guatemala.

The market overwhelmed our senses – raw meat hanging from hooks, fresh spices in flour sacks, and colors so rich they could be felt like velvet in the air. Pollo frito and chicharrone drew lines of hungry people while women negotiated the best price for fresh bread piled high in baskets.

She was perched on a bucket around a quiet corner.

Gladiolas, daisies, roses, calla lilies. The bouquet she gathered in her arms from the flowers lying on the ground around her was larger than her tiny frame. She smiled and shared the price.

“Sesenta quetzales.” The labor of all those who tended to the flowers in the fields and in the market, worth less than $8 US. Our protests in English did no good to encourage her to take more. To her, the flowers held little value.

Something else did.

I held up my phone and  asked if I could take a photo. She nodded and posed regally – then motioned to see the image. She smiled a toothless grin. “Ahh, que lindo. Soy preciosa.”

She sat among the flowers. But she knew where true beauty lived.

I pray to see it too.