Night Drive

I remember
speeding through a black night.
The headbeams don’t reach far enough, I fear.

My father’s
light hands on the wheel
anticipate every curve.

he slows a little and the car flies
over a slight rise in the road.

Later, he dips
the highbeam and fifty feet shrink to thirty.
What is it? I ask. Motorcycle.

The cyclist passes,
waves gratefully. Our light flicks up again.
I still cannot see the road beyond the beam.

My father,
he knows this road, every curve, every pothole.
We will be fine. I sit back and relax.


15 thoughts on “Night Drive”

  1. How scary it was when my father in early Alzheimer’s took the California highways too fast, and we wouldn’t say a word because we weren’t certain there was anything wrong. My trust was diminished, though, after that ride.


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