The ancient willow that guarded the corner is gone, its lawn totally devoid of the thing that dominated it in my childhood.
I hear her shift in the back seat.
“That your old school?” my daughter asks.
“No,” I say towards the rear-view mirror, “ that was past your Grandmother’s house.”
We won’t visit it, because I had no intention of sightseeing.
Quick stop at the house, get what I need signed, back to the main road, up to the highway and we’re gone again, to cheeseburgers and then home.