Moving day again. We're bringing Mom back to South Bend. She's finished her treatments, and the doctors think she's doing well. Her screens are clear.

This is the first time I've been home in seven years. We get all the bags into the car, and it isn't really that much.

"Mom, where do you want to sit?"

She's going to give me the front seat, and I'm going to decline. I get into the back of the little blue car, and she settles into the front, and Becky's all business.

Traffic is heavy and fierce as we drive the highway south toward Tacoma. We pass the car lots and body-repair shops, the malls and the malls and the malls. I've enjoyed my stay in the city, and now I'm remembering the less picturesque parts of normal life.

The cars thin out down toward Olympia, and then we turn off--head north to go west--into the woods.