I like to drive on hot nights with the window down. Last night the unexpected smell of fresh cut hay reminded me of growing up in Wyoming and riding a motorcycle along the irrigation canals. I passed an old corner market as the sun set in my rearview. The store’s pink paint flaking and peeling. Its liquor sign glowed warm but I felt no pull unlike the year I pickled my sorrow to preserve it.
Memories, pleasant and painful, behind and beside. Driving toward the next corner expecting lilacs around the bend.