Par Sara Kandler
I manage to unwrap my three-year-old’s surprisingly strong arms from my neck and do two drive-thru errands while the baby’s still awake in her car seat behind me and we’re humming
so sweet
while I spin the steering wheel slowly to the left and then to the right noticing the family-run grocery store is now a second-rate gym
I should check it out
and the boutique where I used to buy my boot-cut jeans now touts music classes for kids
a good idea
and my little one’s fussing and can I make it home in time for her to get a real nap and for me to get on the computer and
suddenly I’m doing the hand-over-hand maneuver I practiced in driver’s ed with my three besties and the odd but well-meaning instructor until I’ve pulled up in front of the stucco home of an old friend who convinced me we should be more and I believed him until he explained a few months later
this is just too much —
I’m struggling to breathe
baby now crying
son must be asking for me
bland house still standing
music from mixed tapes
spilling
out into the fresh fall air
This scar
This car
I need to get home
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