WITH CAUTION

Two more weeks of daily lessons,

on busy streets, the highway,

one week left before school starts,

James says it’s time.

His eyes gloss over.

I wonder

if missing someone feels the same

inside every person.

Ride the subway uptown,

enter a tan box of a building.

For the first time,

I say a prayer—

for Dad to keep me

safe.

During the test,

I brake with caution,

keep my hands at 10 and 2.

Park as best I can,

tricky, imperfect.

Relax a little and

let the road lead me.

After the test, the instructor pauses for a minute,

scratches his head, sighs, says

I need to work on

my parallel parking.

He also says congratulations.

I emerge, excited, relieved,

look for Dad.

And then I remember.

Again.

For the first time, I notice James’s face thinning,

his muscles weakening.

I let him,

with his sleeves of tattoos,

new eyebrow piercing,

put his arm around me.

He says

Your dad would be so proud.

And I know he’s right.