Pat and I have been making weekly trips to Chicago this summer, sometimes together, but mostly alone. It’s a five and a half hour trip whenever we leave and I can probably do it in my sleep. The trips are depressing when driving alone. About half way through the trip melancholia surrounds me like a Steven Foster song. The radio becomes an annoyance instead of a distraction. I think about how I told myself I wasn’t going to do this, this summer. I was going to stay at home and work in the garden all summer. But we make the trips to see my mom and Pat’s mom. Right about the time when I want to sink into despair I see color up ahead. Not the greens and ambers of farms, but garden colors. I pull over on the side of the road and gaze. I don’t know if it’s a sign or just serendipity but I feel refreshed and my sadness disappears.