The log bed we found there and left there. The sound of wind every night. The darkest ceiling-sky pricked with starlight. Pasture (how would you describe deepest green?) and unworldly sandstone from the porch — such unfair beauty. Reading old magazines with that in sight. Slingshots at the Trading Post, rope swing on the way. The daytrip in search of heart rocks, bone, desert glass, tin cans. The dance on the Main Street pickleball court we forced our teens to attend. Jackrabbits, cows, lizards. Visiting Robbers Roost bookshop every time, to see the Butch and Sundance painting we gave to Barry. Pumpkin shakes, the signal the small-town season was over. We said we bought the cabin too soon. We had enough; what we wanted would never be enough.