It's a Sunday morning drive to another exurb to do some achingly American normal class thing and I would be irritated and sarcastic if it wasn't all so innocent. It's spring here, and the sere hills are green finally and wild mustard is blooming its riot and I am starting to cry because it is hitting me in full force now, that this will be mine, going forward. This will be what I know. This is not a bad thing, it is its own beauty, its own sweetness, but oh how different.