For each man sees himself in the Grand Canyon – each one makes his own Canyon before he comes. Each one brings and carries away his own Canyon.
-Carlsburg

Traveling makes me think about mortality.
Well, life makes me think about mortality.

Specifically, traveling with my parents because I see my parents between 2-4 times a year. I’ve made a decided choice to live in a faraway place from my home. And while that has brought me so many gifts and opportunities, like a degree and a teaching career, it is hard to be far away.

The canyon is a special place. It is as wide and harrowing as it seems, but so stunning in a way that makes you think about how small you are, and your tiny speck of existence. Carlsburg is right: you do see yourself in the canyon. You wonder how something so massive and overpowering could exist in the same space where you exist, and wonder if you deserve it, or can even appreciate the grandeur in the midst of your big, little life.

But as I was driving as my parents sat and read on their phones, or took a cat nap, from Grand Canyon to Flagstaff then home to Phoenix, I felt the end of our trip. It overpowered me and I started to cry.

The day before I leave my family on any visit, I always feel it. It’s a deep canyon of loss fueled by anxiety about the future. How long will I have my parents on this earth? Of course it won’t be the last time I see them. And I’m not saying that just to say it. I am not superstitious. I just genuinely trust and know they will be here a long time. The way my dad drives and survives? He’s like a cat!
But I start to measure the time I have left with them in visits as I think about leaving, because if I always live far away, our time will be measured in visits. And just as the Grand Canyon is measured in the tiny shifts in the earth it makes over time so small that we don’t feel them, will I feel all I am supposed to feel before mortality takes its course?

And then I just think about how we are all going to die.

And I worry: how will the shape of regret take size in my life, for not being the daughter who loved them endlessly? Even the Grand Canyon has an ending point, and so does my love. I was often the daughter who hurt them, and took them for granted, and made mistakes, and got frustrated when they took too long to get ready to go on the hike. Will I regret that we were a family, humans first, instead of a fairy tale? And how will I cross that canyon?

And so, I started to cry as we drove, but thankfully my eyes were covered by my trusty Dollar Tree wide-frames so they didn’t notice. While I drove, it was misty and overcast in the desert, which is a rarity, hastening the tears.
They are used to my emotional vicissitudes, especially my outbursts of frustration the day before I leave, predicated on my sadness that it is one less visit I have left with them.

Ultimately, what is the point of all of this if one day we will all be gone?

The California Condor is almost extinct, but not yet. Does the bird know his bird friend days are numbered? How does he enjoy what he has left, except to keep doing all the normal bird things? Do California Condors write their morning gratitudes?

Do I fly home, and spend the remainder of my days cherishing what and who my family is? Or do I fly and feel the ups and downs of constant beginnings, middles and ends of visits?

I just hike. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, take the next step, and wear sunscreen. It’s what we all doing if we are lucky enough to have the chance.