It's July and the heat is bending the air over the asphalt outside the base. I open the glovebox for my logbook and the ice scraper falls out. It's still there from February.
The spring came early this year. So early the crocuses were up before the last frost called it quits. She would have loved that. But she died in February, three days before the first thaw.
I drive past the crossing guard at the elementary school. Mrs. Hensley, same yellow vest, same red sign, same wave. Thirty years of that wave.
The base gate is quiet. The guard nods. I do my sweep of the commuter lot, ticket slips fanning in my hand.
I think about who I am now. I'm the man who drives a parking enforcement truck alone, who keeps an ice scraper in July, who talks to the flowers in the front yard because no one else hears.
Turning into someone who notices the seasons without her.
But maybe that's okay. She'd want me to see the spring anyway.