I’ve always wanted to be a horse farmer. No joke.
Back when I was 7, I remember walking through the North Georgia hills, dreaming of living on a ranch filled with beautiful, dark brown and white velvet horses. I dreamed of living in a home filled with watercolor paintings of horses, hues of bright rosiness and earthy tones on display everywhere. How I loved horses.
In my teens, I met a traveling Peruvian monk named Juan Carlos. Juan Carlos grew up the illegitimate son of a farmhand and a house maid in Lima. He walked with a slight limp, brought on by years of herding sheep on a rocky hillside. Juan Carlos was a fascinating man.
Life continued on, as it is known to do. One day begins. Another ends. My dreams of horses and my Peruvian monk friend Juan Carlos faded away.
Then one day just a few months…
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