When we drive to our singing group the sun has set. The air is now cool and crisp, and we drive in the dark. We can go two ways, but Mom wants to go over the reservoir, past a small cemetery set back on a hill, large houses pushing against it. Old tombstones slant awkwardly from the earth. Back in their graves, far enough for us not to see as we drive by, are my mother’s parents. It is good to take this way, to have specific memories rise up each time we go past, once before singing, once after.