My daughter wanted to walk with me, early, and we wanted a change of scenery. We drove across town to walk our old neighborhood, the meadows and fields and woods of her first neighborhood, from the house where she was born. Charlie hopped in the car, eager for the journey. It’s a five minute drive. We parked on a lonely, narrow street at the old cemetery. Flapping fresh flags stood at the graves of the war dead. It was wet from some rain in the woods. What an amazing patch, a huge gathering of lily of the valley, drenched with sparkle. And in the next few steps, the sweet forget-me-nots, the cinnamon fern, the wild geranium. We have walked these woods for miles together. I have walked this patch of woods my whole life, every season of it. Crossing the Mayo Farm meadow she spotted the red tail hawk, lifting off from some prey in the tall grass, whisking up to the top of a pine. He watched us pass, over to Course Brook where we gave Charlie a drink. We walked across the street where we lived and toward the skating pond, the wooded pond where we skated in winter. We walked the woods that used to lead to my parents’ home up the street for visits. We walked through ankle deep mud and passed the spot where we picked the winterberries in winter for the holidays. We drove home, sweetly satisfied, chilled from our wet boots. Then a call came in, an old friend, a dear friend, and I stayed in the car to listen to her tell me what was in her heart. What she needed to tell me. One of those times when only the ears of an old and trusted friend who has known you since you were thirteen are the only hears that will do. It was a good listen, in my wet, wet boots. And when I went indoors I warmed them up in a hot shower, and my daughter sent a picture of forget-me-nots by text to me with a freshly written haiku commemorating our walk. In the late afternoon, on the deck, I served tea and cinnamon scones, fresh from the oven. A memorial day to remember.