Off Again

            Walking up the driveway, I hear the crunch of tires behind me.  It’s the electric golf cart.

            Mom quickly overtakes me.  It’s a good thing I’m out of mud puddle splash range.  She zips around at the end of the driveway, making a U-turn to pick up the empty garbage can.  I catch up and grab the mail from the mailbox.

            She speeds off back down the driveway, and I admire the gold-colored hubcaps.  Her cart is a vintage Mercedes or Lexus of the golf cart world, but it desperately needs a hosing down.  Her blue nameplate, “Priscilla,” adorns the back.  On the front is a classy eagle ornament.  On top is the fringed roof covering.

            At the driveway “Y,” she stops.  It takes a while for me to catch up. She leans out and asks which way takes her closest to our house.  “Straight ahead!” I say cheerily while I mourn this most recent loss of memory.

            She accelerates, continuing her trip down the hill.  Just before she reaches the shop, she stops suddenly.  I see her peering into the woods.  And then, I am grateful that I have stayed on the side of the drive (as opposed to walking down the middle) as she abruptly backs up--full throttle--to get a better view.   She doesn’t seem to notice me as she flies past. 

            A few minutes later, she comes into the house, asking what she had planned to do.  “Well,” I say, “you just brought the trash can in from the road.  I don’t know if you unloaded it, though.”

            “Did I?” she asks.  Then she is off again.