I awoke on the third anniversary of my husband’s death beneath the towering sandstone spires of Kodachrome State Park. The morning dew was just beginning to burn off the desert plants; the sun already hot under a cloudless July sky. My husband died in the desert, miles from cell reception or help, turning a once-loved playground into an ever-present symbol of my trauma. But despite this, I find myself returning year after year, searching for something in the sand and negative space. Because for all that the desert takes, it returns a certain stillness — a certain holiness — that can only be found as I surrender to this place of scarcity and accept that beauty can also be found in the absence of things.