for my oldest son
It’s a shock to realize
You’re four years older than our Suburban
Just yesterday, she seemed old,
this morning, you both seem too young
We bought her when you were seven years old
You crawled over the seat, pressing buttons, laughing
She carried us off the car lot, ungrunting
Full of car seats and crackers and noise
We criss-crossed the country five times in her
Your knees growing closer to the seat’s back each time
Each ride quietly rolling toward today
The admission price was a scant thirty questions and $4.50
Not nearly enough to measure the gravity
As you check the mirrors, adjust the seat and steering wheel
I sit tense in the passenger seat, feigning a relaxed air
Somehow I thought fifteen years would take longer
The road here seemed to meander and stall
But looking back, it was a straight, fast shot
My youngish son behind the wheel of my oldish Suburban
I fight tears, feeling it is a terrible betrayal
Me
Teaching you
How to drive, how to live, how to leave
I relish the thought that for now,
You’re just driving us home
We maneuver a few turns and stops and starts
The Suburban wonders who’s really in charge
I wonder too.
You pull back into the driveway triumphant
Looking at me with a grin, expectant
I let go of the handle above the door
Smiling because I can’t help it
I pat the dashboard in thanks and you laugh
She’s got a few more years, I say
And it catches in my throat- just a few more years
I swallow nostalgia and spill everything I know.
Don’t drive too fast.
Brake a little sooner than you think.
Choose your passengers with care.
and
Enjoy the ride. It’s shorter than it looks.
SLW, August 2015