We drove down Parleys in the dark, eating the last of the cookies my mother had baked us 2,000 miles to the east. The canyon, the names, the number of stars — nothing was familiar. We took an exit called “State,” drove past a large bowling pin, found a cheap motel, climbed under thin sheets. In the morning, I stood in the parking lot and looked across the Salt Lake Valley, counting all the people and trees that were missing. But let this be a cautionary tale. There will be an impossible blueness to the sky. One day there will be baby quail dancing across your yard, and the comforting grid of numbered streets, and the sharp silhouette of the Oquirrhs in fading December light.