I sat in a parking lot, or at least it was a lot of sorts, perhaps it was my act of parking which appended the parking’s to lot, trees hung and swung green or grey, but either way, I spoke with my mother about my father and his surfboard, about my brother-in-law about his tuba, about my sister and her care, about my mother and her finches and her knitting, [Staralfur song in the parking lot and an overture of sorts to two years past], weddings and travels, baking on lakes and thinking of it. You’d never call it stalling — you might say it’s what’s afternoon or a Sabbath if liberal with the language, but I was stalling, stalling and couldn’t circle this neighborhood or really any neighborhood more times. Not because of a fuel shortage! I’d only gone Mile 46 to Mile 68. Mom and I carried on a bit, she was on her way to I can’t right now remember where, and my dad and I were sorting through birthdate plans of Rangers Games and other things no less careful of my childhood. I started up my car, pushed the song to Ára Bátur, (which sounds like not much else besides a summer drive back from a remote lake location), made Mile 68 Mile 70, and this is how it was required.