Traveling

One foggy morning

As the sun stretched in its grogginess

I found the car

Caked with sweat

As if it had run a marathon.

My Dad

Turned it on, poured

Water over its forehead and ears

And knew it would run fine.

But still I gazed

At the rivulets of sweat

Forming fields of budded flowers

With stems criss-crossing

Until the sweat, in my mind,

Was no more.

Droplets ring like bullets

as they strike the glass in rounds.

Splintered echoes of shrapnel

skid up the dashboard in waves.

Spiritual fog floods the valley of despair

choking it with a double night.

Lights flash through her eyelids

Like memories that would rush-- but not yet.

For now, the jerking murmur of the track

Startles her eyes open

Only for them to again alight

Together, shutting out the unknown.