The faded photograph, age-spotted and dog-eared, fell from his fingers to rest upon his lap. James Carter had fallen asleep. Chin to chest, his glasses slipped down his nose, saved from disaster by the curved temples behind his slightly over-sized ears. And he dreamt.

Carla swept toward him, her steps lively and graceful, as her skirt swirled softly around her bare legs. Her gray-blue eyes twinkled with happiness as she ran into his waiting arms and he gathered her close to his chest. His arms trembled like leaves in a soft autumn breeze, and his head spun as he breathed in the scent of her honeysuckle hair. They clung together, and he could feel her heart beating wildly, matching the rhythm of his own, in the cadence of young love.

Then he awoke. James blinked and lifted his head ignoring the pain that shot through his neck and down his shoulders. His raised his hand and pushed his glasses back in place. The room was dim as evening descended. The dream lived on in the recesses of his awareness and left him with a sense of loss. He retrieved the photograph and returned it to his wallet. How many years had he carried it now? Carla had been 17 when the snapshot was taken. Had it really been 40 years?

Though he had never formally asked Carla to marry him, they had talked of a future and teased about whom their children would look like. When James left for the service, he really meant to return home to Carla. But Japan was so far away. And he had been so young. Carla had gone off to college and he had written fewer and fewer letters, finding new adventures and a new life. Soon Carla was only a fond memory, but he had kept that photograph hidden in his wallet, somehow unwilling to break that last tie.

The years had been kind to James. His wife, Betty, had loved him and cared for him for nearly 31 years. He had loved her, and their life had been good. He still loved her, but she had left him. Her tired heart had given up its struggle four years ago while he sat beside her, holding her hand whispering that it was all right to leave, giving her peace of mind and freedom from the overbearing pain. Her lips were dry and chapped as he leaned down and kissed her, and felt her last breath against his face.

Margie, their only child, was now 33 years old. She lived with her husband, John, in California. Last Christmas, James flew from Chicago to visit them and meet his granddaughter, Megan. Such a charmer! He could see Betty's smile when Megan beamed at him in happiness from her high chair. Her hair was the deep chestnut color that Margie had inherited from Betty. Since then Margie had been urging James to sell the old house and move to California.

James sold his business last year and invested the earnings, which allowed him to live comfortably. But he didn't want to move to California. He did plan to make a change though. He was thinking about buying a motor home and traveling around the United States-a dream born long ago, before Betty. A dream he and Carla had shared in their youth and naivet�.

And as he remembered, he had pulled out the photograph and wondered what Carla had done with her life. He knew she had married-a teacher, if he recalled correctly. How many years ago had he learned that? Time seemed to waver and shift in the nothingness of his existence.

James rose from the chair and turned on the lamp. A soft glow lit the recesses of the room as he gazed around. Everything was in exactly the same place it had been when Betty made her last trip to the hospital. He heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. What had happened to his dreams? Why had he let them slip away? He was still young. Not quite 60 years old. Why not? Why not pursue that dream?

On the following Saturday, James climbed into his new motor home. He checked the cellular phone that hung on the dash. It was fully charged. Just in case of an emergency, he thought, though he knew he was only kidding himself. He would use that phone to call Margie and share the adventures as he made his journey. He wasn't going to spend another lonely Thanksgiving eating at the local Bob Evans. No sir. He was moving on. He'd have a few weeks to travel and see the leaves change, then he could be with Margie to eat turkey on Thanksgiving.

As he pulled away, he felt his lips curve into a smile. Life was good. A weight lifted from his shoulders and he hummed along with the radio as he turned onto the freeway. He didn't have a plan. Just hit the road and go wherever he found something interesting! No worries, no commitments, just him and the road.

As the tires sang on the concrete, he gazed out the windows and saw his future in front of him. Perhaps he would visit the Grand Canyon! He had always wanted to travel west. After Thanksgiving, he would travel on up to Washington. Then he would drive through Oregon. Portland was supposed to be a beautiful city.

James drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel in tune with the Beatles singing "Hey, Jude!" Ah, this was the life. Music from the past merged with the excitement of new adventures calling to him.

Five hours later he was surprised when he read the sign in front of him. Collinsville, Illinois! His heart lurched. Instead of heading west, he had headed south! He hadn't been in Collinsville since he left for Japan so many, many years ago.

As if guided by remote control, he turned and followed Route 50, through Collinsville, and on toward Belleville. His heart was pounding now and his hands were shaking. Afraid of driving while so afflicted, he pulled into a gas station. He tugged his wallet from his back pocket and retrieved the faded photograph. He stared into her laughing face while tears blurred his vision. Carla! Oh, Carla, where are you now? Why couldn't you be sharing this adventure with me? It was our dream, yours and mine. He forced his head up, closed his eyes and bent head from side to side toward his shoulders, working out the kinks. Then he rolled his head in a circle loosening the tight muscles in his back. He opened his eyes and shoved the photograph back into its place of safety.

Stepping from the motor home, he turned to the pumps and filled the gas tank. As he walked inside to pay, his eyes were drawn to the pay phone sitting beside the station. He paid the clerk, then headed straight toward the phone. The white pages hung on a metal cord attached to the bottom of the phone cage. He knew her name. Carla Nevitt. It burned through his memory. Carla Swanson, now married to Roger Nevitt, a teacher. Had he ever met Roger? His mind was foggy. He couldn't remember Roger. That didn't matter, though. He could call. Just an old friend passing through town. Invite them out for a drink or dinner. He could see her one last time, perhaps share his travel plans. Would she remember this had once been their dream?

In a daze, he opened the book and ran his finger down the names. Netter, Netting, Nevitt. R. Nevitt. Roger? Or just a coincidence? With shaking fingers, he dropped the quarter into the slot and punched the numbers. His arms began to tremble and his lips felt parched. The phone rang. Once, twice. It wouldn't be the right Nevitt. He was sure of it. He'd just hang up now, before-

"Hello?"

Her voice hit him like a drink of fine wine, warm and intoxicating. He throat closed. He couldn't speak. He swallowed and tried again, but all that emerged was a grunt.

"Hello?" Her voice was louder, a little tense.

He swallowed again and unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Hello," he managed, then cleared his throat. A little stronger, "Hello, Carla?"

"Who's calling?" she asked hesitant.

"Carla, it's James. James Carter. Uh, I was just passing through�"

"James?" she said questioningly. "James! Oh, what�I mean�"

Somehow he managed to get through the brief conversation. Her husband, Roger, had been gone for 15 years. Cancer, she said. Finally he had asked if she would meet with him, and she had agreed.

He sat on the bench in the park looking at the leaves softly falling, spreading their golden and red blanket on the ground. Autumn was a beautiful time of year. He was in the autumn of his life. And now he would once again see Carla. What would she look like? Would she recognize him? It had been so many years. His head jerked up at the sound of footsteps approaching. It was her; his heart jack-hammered in his chest.

Carla swept toward him, her steps lively and graceful, as her skirt swirled softly around her bare legs. Her gray-blue eyes twinkled with happiness as she ran into his waiting arms and he gathered her close to his chest. His arms trembled like leaves in a soft autumn breeze, and his head spun as he breathed in the scent of her honeysuckle hair. They clung together, and he could feel her heart beating wildly, matching the rhythm of his own, in the cadence of a love never forgotten.