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Car Ride Conversations MAG
I’m in the car.
In front of me, my mother
drives down the road
whose twists, turns,
and traffic lights
I have already memorized.
“I can look after her,” I say.
We have been through our fair share
of earthquakes and hurricanes,
giant mountains that tower over us.
But still.
After all, I am her older sister, and
only a two-year-old river separates us.
Without even looking at me,
my mother replies,
“Do you think I can trust you?”
I turn my gaze from the
window to the back of
my mother’s head.
She keeps her eyes on the road,
her hands gripped around the wheel.
My mother says something else
but all that translates is a slew of sounds
too fast, too muffled
to detangle into words.
Wind rushes in my ears,
whispering things
only I can hear
and not
understand.
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