Cerillos, New Mexico. Midday in June.

Out there, time itself was stopped by the hot sun; it only sputtered forward each time a buzzing fly landed on my arm or leg.

What am I doing out here in these shoes?

The silence along that dusty road, the calm approach of the mules to the wire fence, a pat on the muzzle.

The hot, heavy desert afternoon on the dusty ranch that bore down on thoughts I didn’t voice. The desert seemed to speak: You only have hope left now. Your fears are like so much mist out here, evaporating away even before you can form their words. They are gone now. You and the hope are what remain.

The mules’ coats all glossy in the blazing sunlight, the dusty surroundings harsh and unforgiving. We then headed back. I hobbled behind in my city shoes, snapping photos of the boys side by side against the high desert backdrop.

This was the most important thing. Us and this place, in quiet communion.

They will be happy. It is their life, their path. And I will look on it with love and acceptance.

I walked behind them and I saw this all unfolding as the sun burned my scalp and my heels made me stumble.