I have been just meandering around for the past couple of days, confused by a message on my personal GPS map of places in my life. I found myself feeling not at the right spot at times in the day and hearing a faint GPS directional voice saying, “You can’t get there from here anymore.”

For a couple of years, especially when the roads weren’t threatened with ice or snow, I would spend late afternoons and evenings two to three times a week sitting between Clara and Kathryn in Room 420. I was fortunate: Kathryn was my friend and Clara came to accept me as one. We were one almost old lady book-ended by two official ones. (Over 95, dontcha know) One very hot summer, we sat watching for rain, remarking with hope on each cloud that hinted of coming our way, studying any breeze that began moving a plant on the window sill. We played Solitaire at the dining table while waiting for the trays to come. We kept company.

And now, there is no longer a reason for me to keep heading over to Room 420. But it is almost as if my car is asking, “Time to head out? Huh? Huh?” Well, no, but time to look at my map.