I'm driving an old-school VW bug, white with rust spots. It's winter and I'm comfortable wearing a scarf, hat, and mittens. I'm listening to the radio and my belly is flipping every time I hit the crescendo of a hill.
Next I'm in a modern house. It's messy and two people from high school are hanging out on my couch, talking about how my mother disliked company when I was growing up.
"Everyone was scared to come to your house," one of them says.
As if on cue, my mother walks through the door and demands I clean the place up and get these strangers out of the house. I scream at her and defend my territory. It's my house and she can't come in here bossing everyone around.
She runs to the bathroom, sobbing, and I feel horrible. My visitors have left, but one of them forgot to pick up her baby from the guest crib on the top floor.