7

The third poem in a collection I am writing about my Mom

Blushed cheeks, porcelain skin
gentle curls frame your doll-like face
adventure awaits

The DeSoto putters, 
sun peeking behind the morning clouds
fingernails barely grasping the open window,
as you peer at the passing landscape,
trying to catch the wind in your tiny hand

I imagine you and Jim,
restless with excitement and apprehension,
playing jacks in the backseat,
arguing over who gets which room
and how you're going to decorate them

Old-fashioned Coke bottle in one hand,
your favorite doll with the worn, dutch dress 
in the other, 
I can hear Grandma snapping,
"Don't spill that pop in the car, little lady"
as Grandpa's tired eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror

Sylvie, as you call her, comforts you.

The endless road drifts,
your weary eyes get heavy, and
the evening moon has never felt so dark,
dreams of a new life with Aunt Elaine and a Great Dane, Deogee, awaits,
in "sunny Arizona," as Grandma would say.

You curl up on the seat, your brother's thigh is your pillow
Your arm falls open, and Sylvie drifts to the floor
Miles pass, too many for you to count that high
The bumpy, well-traveled highway serves as your lullaby


(c) 2014. Tracey Gould. All rights reserved.