This birthday is just about
over, no car for me, and what
the hell was I thinking? I’ll have
to find my own way to autonomy.
But then, I always understood
that, didn’t I? We bump into
the driveway, safe and sound
despite Dad’s compromised state.
“The sleigh knows the way,”
I say out loud, “so Santa, please
don’t sweat it.” The sentiment
floats up from out of the depths,
disturbing Dad, who throws
the gearshift into park, turns
off the ignition. He turns to look
at me. What did you just say?
I repeat the sentence while
trying to discern what’s got
him so riled up. “I have no idea
where it came from. Do you?”
He sits in silent contemplation,
as if searching for the right thing
to say, but ultimately comes back
with, Nope, never heard it before.