I remember my first roadtrip.
We drove out to Michigan,
my mom, brother and sister
and our neighbors, a woman,
Bernard and his two sisters.
We travelled in their turquoise
station wagon three rows with
luggage piled around all the kids.
The best part was sitting in the back
watching the cars behind and the
landscape turn colder.
Most of it isn’t very clear:
a shady copse of trees
covering a comfortable lawn,
a farm and an uncle with
a voicebox. The way
the mothers acted,
mentioning sex and breasts
and other taboo in front of
us. Playing chess on
hardwood floors with Bern.
I hated being there. All of us
fought and our moms weren’t
the mediators, acting so
weird. I wondered, why
wouldn’t we just stay at home
and sleep in our own beds?
I haven’t talked to Bernard
in ten years, and his mom
died about eight years ago.
I guess I’m at that age I
don't mind sleeping in a strange
place. I should see if he wants
to play some chess in the mid
West and carry on like
we’re in the Caribbean.
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