Every drop-off then was the smell of hot bread from the ovens behind the factory walls, made grey in the mind by it always being wet and dark, head-lights on. When I drive past the road today the smell of fresh baked bread still breaks out of those same walls, now Newberry’s Funeral Home, where the ovens are hotter and sealed tight. For the symmetry, it’s at Newberry’s I can be dropped-off, on a weekday, when there’ll be a fight for parks, everyone oblivious to the smells and memories of years ago.