Image by Andy Magee
My throat tightens
when I spot you waiting,
among the clump of students filled with
young, slouchy energy.
Then the mom-worry kicks in.
You look exhausted and rumpled,
smell faintly of stale beer and cigarette smoke.
I wonder how much sleep you've had this week,
But finals are over and you’re mine again,
at least for the next three hours
while we drive home.
Your dark, 5-day growth
reminds me that you are a man now,
but still my baby - always my first baby.
You stretch and push the seat back to its furthest position,
as we head west out of the city
listening to System of a Down.
It should be snowing, you say.
I agree as we look past the windshield wipers
into the grey December drizzle.
I turn up the defrost, as the atmosphere
inside the car is changed by the warm breath of two.
Then the special magic of a long car ride begins.
You shift in your seat, turn down the volume
and start talking…
everything is all right.
This is prompted by The Mag creative writing group. Check it out.