I didn’t expect to visit Stonington, Connecticut. It was late summer and I was driving through New York City in a Volkswagen beetle with the windows rolled down and Cat Stevens singing “Looking for a hard-headed woman” from the 8-track tape player mounted under my seat. Somewhere on Interstate 95 in the Bronx I noticed a girl in another car and we glanced at each other. I watched her into southern Connecticut as afternoon was cresting … the sun was bright and hot and the gold in the light danced on her long hair and bounced against her car seat back and attempted to fly out her open window. She exited at Stonington, CT and I drove on. At once I felt the most profound loss at not having known this girl … for not spending a moment talking with her by the side of the road or in a diner off the interstate. I took the next exit and drove to a spot where I could see the ocean and I waited for her to realize I was there and to find me. When the afternoon sun began its drive to the sea, I continued mine to Boston. Now, when I travel north from New York City, I use a different route. I don’t pass Stonington, Connecticut anymore.