Where Yesterday Lives by Karen Kingsbury

daughter’s level. “I know that, honey. It hurts me, too. But right now we don’t have any choice.”
    “Will we move again?”
    “Probably. But wherever we go we’ll be together and we’ll always have each other.”
    Her father’s words rang in Ellen’s mind, and she glanced out the window once more. What he’d said was true. Ellen and hersisters and mother had grown to depend on each other because they were never sure of anything except the family to which they belonged.
    Another memory began taking shape, and Ellen could see herself holding a bulky, oversized chalkboard. There was something scribbled on it, and she was shouting at cars that drove by
    “Park here! One dollar. Park here!”
    The image was clear now. The town was Ann Arbor, where the Barretts had lived just eight houses away from the University of Michigan football stadium. Each Saturday when there was a home game, fans would cruise up and down the neighboring streets looking for a place to park.
    Nearly everyone on Keech Street parked cars in their driveways and even on their front lawns. Ellen was eight and all week she looked forward to the frenzied excitement of football Saturdays. She would wave the chalkboard to gain the attention of passing motorists. Park here, $1, the sign read. Anxious fans would pull into the yard, and her father would collect the money.
    At halftime the family would walk toward the bright, yellow gates of the stadium, and her father would wink at the ticket taker.
    “Residents get in free at halftime, right?”
    The attendant would smile, size up the trail of children that tagged behind the man, and wave the group inside. They would sit as close as they could to the Michigan Wolverine marching band.
    By then Amy was nearly two years old and the family finally included a boy, Aaron Randall Barrett. Even when the weather grew cold and snow covered the ground, their father would carry his infant son to the games, snuggling him tightly beneath his heavy brown wool coat. Their mother usually stayed home to work on dinner and get the house ready for weekend company.
    “You’re the littlest Wolverine of all,” their father would sayto the infant Aaron once they were settled into stadium seats. Ellen remembered watching with her sisters as their father tickled and cooed at their only brother. “One day you’ll be a big Wolverine, Aaron, and Daddy will come watch you play football every Saturday.”
    “I’m going to be a Wolverine, too, Daddy,” Ellen would say and her father would pull her close.
    “That’s my girl, Ellen. You can be whatever you want.”
    When Michigan scored a touchdown, as the team often did, the band would erupt into the familiar fight song and everyone in the Barrett family old enough to talk would sing along.
    “Hail to the victors valiant, hail to the conquering heroes, hail, hail, to Michigan…” Even little Amy knew to raise her right fist whenever the word
hail
was sung.
    Ellen sighed as the memories blended in her mind. Dozens of Michigan games. Every Saturday of the football season for two years.
    The plane moved along effortlessly as Ellen tried to capture a glimpse of her father and savor it. She could see him sitting in Michigan Stadium, eyes wide with excitement, cheeks red from the chilly air, cheering the Wolverines to victory. How he loved Michigan football.
    Twelve years later, when Ellen was accepted into the university’s journalism program, no one was more thrilled than her father. Aaron had not pursued football beyond his sophomore year in high school. But Ellen knew she had been her Dad’s kindred spirit, a child who shared the desires of his heart.
    The plane rumbled as it passed through turbulent air, and suddenly Ellen remembered the football season just ten months before her father’s death. Michigan had played Notre Dame in a spectacular contest. She’d known he would be watching the game and had called him from Miami during the third quarter to see if he’d