Brenna plucks samples of the many wildflowers as we carefully make our way down the steep slope. “Is there something we can put these in?” she wonders as we arrive at our campsite, her hands bursting with shapes and color.
“I can’t think of anything,” I answer after making a mental review of our supplies.
“That’s okay,” she concludes. “I’ll just set them here.”
Bright light is streaming through the tent’s one little window as we settle into our sleeping bags for the night. Maybe someone’s headlights are pointing our way.
Brenna is still sitting up so I ask, “can you see out the window what that light is?”
“It’s the moon, dad,” she answers sardonically.
We choose a lullaby to sing together, as we have every night since she was a baby, then drift side-by-side to the land of dreams.