The Child: I shuffle along, kicking up the dry mountain dust, coating my tennis ball in a thick clay-like film. My white cane hits a gnarled tree root that rises up out of the ground. The cane is stuck in the root and its handle slams painfully into the my hip bone. I let out a groan and wince from the sudden jab of pain. I hear my mother inhale sharply in response to this, and know she is frustrated again by the surroundings and the difficulty we are both experiencing.
The Mother: I see my daughter tripping along the rock, rooted, dusty path down to the lakefront. Last night I was in tears in our cabin at camp. I was sweaty, sticky with bug repellant, and tired from the numerous trips to our cabin from the car full of our sleeping bags, pillows, baggage and more. I didn't have a daughter who could carry her own things, so I needed to carry both of our belongings myself.