Every Sunday we'd go for a drive upstate. Always to the same place, passing the same objects, the same bridges, the same barns and fields. Always in the early morning, with the rays of sun coming up behind the mountains, or in beating rain, where the trees swayed and the car rocked. In mists and fogs where everything blurred and shifted and became something else or in the snow, where the old car's heater blasted hot air, drying up our sinuses, our noses whistling for the rest of the day.

We would park at the same spot every Sunday. A valley that looked up to a small hill. I'd look, imitating my parents' expectant gazes, up that hill, occassionally seeing a flock of birds but nothing more. We'd sit in the car for an hour and my parents would stare up at that hill. Then they'd both draw a quick breath. I'd go on staring as well, seeing nothing but clouds shift and the day grow brighter. Once in a while my parents would look at me wonderingly but seemed to see something missing and turn back. A few minutes later we'd take the long road home...

I'll continue this at another time...