Driving north on Rt. 37 on a cold bright Saturday morning, I glimpse, from the corner of my eye, periodic flashes of light. It's the sun rising across the silent silver frozen fields, slashing through the gaps between the trees.

I used to see the light the same way riding the 8:30 a.m. Greyhound in college. I'd change in Indianapolis and head to Ohio at the start of every vacation. So every flash of light brings back a second of memory: the smell of Grayhound terminals, the expectation of coming home, the sadness of being the last person to leave for vacation when everyone else has already headed to the airport. Has it really been that long ago? Maybe not; in some ways I am still the last person to leave and am still always coming home.

The sun and the land don't change. But I am in a car now, not on the bus, and we are going faster now, leaving town behind again. The sun's shining, the ice has melted, it's Saturday, and the sign I'm passing says NEW HOPE.