After two restroom stops and one refuel, we finally get to Flagstaff and turn into Poppi’s neighborhood. In spite of the slight anxiety of the holiday, I love being back in the place I grew up. Even though it sucked losing both our parents when we were still children, Poppi and Gran stepped right in and we never felt unloved or unwanted. I look over at Ashley’s face, and I sense she’s on the same train of thought.
As we turn the car onto Rolling Hills Lane, a flood of memories hits me: the first few months when Ashley was five and I was nine, and we couldn’t understand what had happened to our parents, Poppi and Gran at our soccer games, my senior party before I left for college. Mostly all good. Then Gran died, and we worried about Poppi’s pervasive sadness.
As if we had been saying the
