There's the obvious.
Bravery in the sharp line of her jaw, a solid strength in the walls of her ribcage.
Selflessness in the calluses of her palms and the arches of her feet.
But there is kindness, too, in the curve of her shoulders inward, toward me, and tranquility in her spine.
Wisdom on her tongue and behind her eyes when she whispers to me.
Honesty in her throat when she has no words.
Divergent is the wrong word; it always has been. She is not split or strange or wrong. We are not.
We are made whole.