We drive down the highway.
For the countless time,
I’ve put my life in your hands.

The music recedes to the background.
I focus my energy forward,
bracing for a crash,
staring down the speedometer,
silently telling it
not to let you go
too fast.

You joke about hydroplaning,
break the tension
(the mouting
family vacation).

In high school
you took the shoulder
of the Bronx Queens Expressway
so I would be on time to math,
me pressing my imaginary brake,
averting our collision
with the break lights ahead.

(Flashing behind my yes
my imagined image
of you spinning
over black ice alights.
Standing by the phone
you relayed this
above my ears,
I was only five
but I remember
the hushed tones
of thankfulness.)

In the backseat,
I stay silent,
loyal to your knowledge
to guide me.