Sometimes the trip to Newport is melancholic, no single reason why, if any.  Not exceptionally grey today.  No rain.  Not the anniversary of any death that I remember.  The waters of the Bay beneath the bridge were joyless.  The close-packed blocks of houses are just old, not charming.  No one is smiling. No couples holding hands.  End of March, I guess.  Only conifers are green—that dead, dark, ominous green. 

The driver had a Christian candy-rock radio station out of Boston on.  Don’t know if he was listening or not; media tinnitus. I wanted it to be in some other language, one I would never understand.  I wanted to be drivng through a different decade, one from a previous century.  We cruised through stop signs.  My hands are always cold now.  These days are like an eternal dusk.  I ask the driver about his home in Kenya.  His accent sooths me.