To parent is to hike to the near end, along the floor of the glorious valley, only to turn back right before the ascent, which held the view that you had walked all morning to see. It is to make yourself accept that the journey was sufficient, in part because the destination is now out of reach. The girls are too tired and you cannot carry (or drag) them both.

You instead consider what you have:
A butterfly wing in your pocket — detached from its person and somehow intact.
A pile of soft sand in the palm of your hand — the color of ground adobe.
In every direction, towering rocks the color of sunset and feet that can carry you home.

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