I'm sitting along a back wall at the Sweetwater Starbucks to avoid the heavy rain.  My exposed toenails are blue with cold as Tony Bennett sings about good times not coming around anymore.

The man in the wingback chair to my left is reading a book, his skin pink with brown patches, tissue paper thin.  His navy shirt, khaki pants and Timberland boots are still wet from rain.

I'm facing my own book, David Sedaris's Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, but my eyes…

This morning I washed the dishes from my stepdaughter's graduation party last night, the pots and pans, cutting boards and knives, crystal, china and silverware dirtied by twenty members of my husband's family. 

I walked the dogs four times, wiped little boy pee off the floor, old man pee off the floor, cooked sides for the Mother's Day brisket my husband prepared, then washed the dishes again, those dirtied by his remaining family, while he took an afternoon…

It's been a couple of years since my seven year old and I discussed how mistakes are made, how we sometimes blindly navigate through life. 

I only remember her looking out the car window as we drove along Sweetwater Boulevard, saying as we passed a Catholic church:  "We learn as we go.  We learn as we travel.  Because every country is different.  And every day is like a new country."

When I hear the song Wildfire by Michael Murphy, time folds back to 1977, to a convention center in Waco, Texas where a T-bucket hotrod with flames painted on the doors revolves slowly among other cars on display, the song playing continuously, worn and scratchy from too many competitions.

Sitting nearby are my aunt and uncle and their enviable fun and wealthy friends, Gary and Jerry, the quintessential perfect couple who own the hotrod they…