This weather reminds my heart of so much. Like getting off the bus in Walpole at four o clock on a November afternoon, rushing into barn chores until 6:30 before getting gas for the black Volvo at the Texaco in Bellows Falls and picking up Chinese take out from Joy Wah on the hilltop. Heading home, smelling like horse, Dad in the drivers seat and darkness closing in over the valley. Rolling uphill, a long ascent to the big house on valley road, zipping fast around the road’s curves, the smell of Chinese food wafting from behind the passenger seat.

I wish I could remember arriving home but my memory stops on March Hill road, right at the dip in the asphalt where we speed up and for a moment, my breath catches in what dad calls a “thank you m’am”
After that, the screen goes blank, and like a poorly spliced reel of film, my memory skips ahead, passing over years, denying me the scenes of my mother in the kitchen, unpacking a paper bag of Chinese food as I know she must have done.