driving this night alone

driving this night alone I remember my father

and his Sunday jaunts, the ones he sometimes

took me on, sometimes didn’t, where he visited

his friends in their homes, at bars, at

restaurants.  The wheel feels weak in my hands,

the steering less stable, less sure.  If an 

animal or person were to wander out in front

of me, would I react fast enough, would I

swerve in time, would my foot take too long 

to jam on the brakes?  My father’s face relaxing

more and more with each beer, each

visit, each stop, his eyes open but not seeing,

his smile widening, his voice changing,

his words slurring, the subject matter making

less and less sense.   The lights bathe the road 

ahead and I wonder why I don’t just turn 

around and go home, like I had planned 

three stops ago.  The next bar pulls

me like a space particle to a planet, the 

atmosphere up ahead.

*as published in Bravura Literary Journal


4 thoughts on “driving this night alone

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