Out of the driveway, left on Michigan, right on Spruce, left on Second, past the swimming pool, where I spent nearly every summer day as a kid, and I'm there.  Just twelve short blocks.  It's almost automatic--the drive anyway.  It's the going that's hard.  I shouldn't dread it so much.  In court all day dealing with other people's troubles .  Driving before dinner time and dealing with mine.

The open air of my little Geo convertible makes it easier.  It's too little to drive on the highway and too old to drive out of town, but perfect for driving to the nursing home.  

I get in and turn onto Michigan.  The wind immediately blows my hair into my face. I look down and see a hat and a hair tie on the console, but I don't reach for either one even though I know I'll arrive with knotted hair. The wind feels too good to harness even a little of it.

The days are getting longer, and the late afternoon sun is still warm on my face and shoulders.  As I look down at my arms, I noice that I already have more color than I've hard in years. The sun doesn't reach my legs though, and they are still white.

As I cross Eighth Street I glance briefly to my right and see their house.  The drive could just as easily take me past it, but I always choose the other route that gives me just a glimpse.  There are memories enough without coming face to face with more. 

I know people from just about every house I pass.  The Tarble house--where we got full size candy bars on Halloween.  Mrs. Tarble is gone now.  The Doll house--named for Mrs. Doll and not for any collection.  She's also gone.  Mr. Greenlee's house--where I got  nickels if I stopped and talked on my way home from the pool.  He was always on the porch and I almost always stopped.  He's gone too. 

I turn left on Second Street in front of  the swimming pool where I used to get my tan--legs included.  It's season will start soon.  There are hostas planted in front that I dug up and transplanted when I managed the pool nearly 30 years ago. They're from Mom and Dad's front yard. Dad taught me how to pop the emerging purple blooms.

The nursing home is right next door.  I don't turn in.   I'm not ready to step out of the sun or the wind quite yet. I keep going straight on Second Street.  Daffodils are  blooming at almost every house, although the yellow petals are beginning to fall and the leaves are drooping.  Their season is almost over.  Multi-colored annuals are taking their place in beds and in pots on porches.   Their season will be longer but still finite.

I circle up Main Street past the courthouse and back onto Michigan.  All the stores and streets are familiar-- the same route I cruised as a teenager with windows down and music blaring.  The days seemed limitless then.  Now I notice the passing seasons of flowers instead of the passing carloads of other teens.

I go fast down Spruce Street and my eyes tear from the wind. As I turn into the nursing home, I see some of the residents sitting out front next to the potted geraniums.  Mom and Dad aren't independently mobile and are not with them. 

I go inside and pass through the dining room with its wall of windows that face the entrance to the swimming pool.  I can see the hostas that I planted.