The leaves were peaking while I was visiting my parents last month so my Dad took my mom and I on a drive up Sardine towards Logan. I think every car that Dad has owned; since I've been alive, has been a smooth ride. We drove by Sherwood Hills. I remembered a youth that all of the sudden felt incredibly inaccessible. The water tower jump, Mantua, Eli, Jaxon and learning how to spin on a snowboard slid across the screen. Visiting old haunts used to be a practice of pride, and on this last trip I was on the outside looking in. It could be the distance between Berlin and Utah as I was just a visitor, or perhaps it was because I was turning 30 that week. I feared I was distant from this depth of youth that remembered being so heavy as I passed the places it created. Around the mountains a half hour later, either Mom or Dad mentioned, tongue in cheek, how my aunt and uncle used to just 'go for a drive' and how that seemed boring to them. Closing the loop by saying how they now enjoy 'just a drive', I work out that these feelings of time passing, positive or negative, are elusive and inaccessible to us all.