I wave back up to the screen door as I climb in the car. Max waves happily for a moment before turning away in search of a playmate.
The car-starting routine begins; purse on passenger seat, phone in cup holder, sunglasses on. The left blinker clicks as I pull away from the curb, glancing over my shoulder as I pull into traffic.
My commute is officially underway.
At the stop sign, I reach down to turn off the kids' radio station; I don't need another round of “Butterfly Driving a Truck” or “Mama Tooted,” not when I'm alone in the car.
I switch the stereo over to my iPod, and the car is soon filled with familiar notes, and before long, my voice has joined in, falling into harmony with The Indigo Girls, the Beatles or the beloved Broadway tunes of my childhood.
My voice isn't as trained as it used to be, I can't quite hit the high notes, but as I clear my mind and sing along, I am energized.
The prompt: Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?