I like to hike with tall people—they easily give me a hand over rough spots, though they may eat too much of the food I’ve brought, forgetting the need to share, and too excited
to stop talking. The next day, we’ll look at the photos, our white faces smiling over potato chips, except for your blank stare. I know you never found your favorite spot, by the tall white bee balm blossoms, I told you it wasn’t logical to expect it would fall into your lap,
the forest is always tricky.  Make your peace with the past, I say, you’ll get farther into the forest of longing if you realize the old is only partly yours. We’re married to our memories, I say, you need to learn to acknowledge the privilege of height, the ancient trees, to admit that now is more, much more than your easy vision of past power, power that, lost or not, comes with a cost.