Day has passsed to dusk, and dusk to night. A long day of driving, car weary and silly we leave our roadside motel and take a drive down memory lane to find some good spagetti and fat pieces of garlic toast.
We leave the restaurant and the scent hits me - Syringa - suddenly I am a child again. It is June and the back door slams behind me, screen bouncing once or twice before it closes. Small, imaginary footsteps clatter off the porch.
I am launched by a sweet flower smell into a soft spring night with the promise of summer folded up with the moon. This is East Trail, beside the river. I am home.