I learn new landmarks each day on my trip south and west. Between Mile 36 and Mile 32, the exit I do not want but have used so many times over the years and the exit seldom used at all, there lie two mysterious mounds. They rise up on either side of the turnpike, matching hills, covered now with the dried grass of fall encrusted with the sparkle of our latest season, late arrived. They face each other, two silent warriors waiting to see who will make the next move.
From my angle of approach something seems to be missing. Perhaps the river ran dry, and the bridge fell into disuse, the pieces cleared to make room for the enormous trucks needed to bring us fruit and coffee from faraway lands.
Or maybe, just maybe, in the spring I will watch a new span rise, preparing to carry other mothers away from their homes, each of us needed elsewhere to shop for the bananas and drink the mochas and earn the money to pay for them.