Few things feel like an arrival more than lying in the grass under a tree. From the top of a hill in Kentucky my mother and I watched the sky, and the birds, and the skyline of Cincinnati, and the cars pass over the Ohio River on Interstates 71 and 75 below us. To the airport, from the airport, back and forth again: how many times on this visit home have I crossed that bridge? In a few days, once more to return to return. To step back into the stream and take part in the passing of time.