IT’S NOT THAT I think my parents will get back together. I know they won’t.

I went to the burrito place, like I always went to the burrito place, the one in our old neighborhood, the one with the long lines of people waiting to order and the colored bulbs strung across the patio and the upside down neon sombreros hanging from the ceiling.

We wake up early, you and I, and go to the hospital. Anxious, empty stomachs.

Seven years ago, during that week in every September when summer turns to autumn, my husband and I rented a car to drive the long distance from Oregon to Massachusetts.