Years ago I’d traversed this same land with Nathan. Step by step I’d crossed it, walking one plodding mile after another when I wasn’t sitting on the tongue of somebody’s wagon as a team of oxen took even slower steps. Five miles a day we’d covered—on a good day—and each of those miles passed one blade of grass at a time. If I closed my eyes, I could bring it all back—the relentless sun, the inescapable rain, the days upon days of seeing the same mountain peak on the horizon—no closer at the end of the day than it had been when you were washing up the breakfast dishes. Nathan and I hadn’t had our own wagon, so we’d sleep under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms. Or we’d sneak off—just over a hill, maybe—to enjoy our newly married life. And that’s what it felt like. Life. Just a slow-moving home. We sang and cooked. Children played games right alongside the turning wagon wheels. Little girls spied wildflowers and made chains of them; little boys trapped lizards and snakes.
