In the Car

Say the Rosary for safety. Then Hangman, Ghost or Alphabet—get all the alphabet in a row from signs. Or read Burma Shave.

Or play Horse. Five points for every horse, twenty for a white horse and cemetery wipes you out. I don’t mind losing. I just like seeing horses.

Get hungry, eat baloney sandwich. Go to the bathroom in gas station.

Back in the car, sing Tom Dooley, Jimmy Crack Corn and I Don’t Care, Michael Row the Boat Ashore, Ants Go Marching or Christmas Carols, just for pretty harmony.

How many more miles. A lot. Skip punches you for no reason, pulls your hair. “Ow!”

Dad says, “Settle Down.” Mom pours him coffee.

Some can read in a car but I get sick. But maybe Skip once is nice to let me sit by the window. I like it to take every strength to open your eyes in the wind, flapping cheeks and elbow triangle.

Dixie cup of Kool-Aid. Ro crawls back, curls next to you asleep. Farmers, kneeling cows, rows and rows of corn fan open and shut. Soon, dark. Drive more. Million dead bugs on the windshield.

But then a turn and another. Stop. We’re there.

•••

Everything quiet from no sound of windows. Dad keeps on headlights and someone runs and gets the cabin key from Mr. Walters. Air is piney and chirpy of crickets.

Get in pajamas and bed. Like Christmas, but you’ll be opening days not presents. So dark you can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed. Sleep.