Once, when days were passed in
backseat view of spruces, boughs
bending darkly over gravel roads,
The sun became a stroboscope
sharply glimpsed through pines.
Car-seat vinyl mock-weave patterns
imprinted on my barelegged skin,
With t-shirt sweat-glued to my back
nauseous minutes crawling
crawling, to a roadside pause
with bread and sun-warm milk.
In smell of oil and gasoline
we, the children should stay silent, but
every time we passed a road-sign
we loudly counted down kilometers,
and if I teased my little sister
it made the car go a bit faster.
Until my parents had enough.
Corey wants us to bring back the memories of road-trips at toads. For some reason the memories of sitting in the backseat on endless travels came back in my memory. We spend many many hours in that old car. But my sharpest memory is the warm vinyl sticking to my skin, and teasing my little sister.
February 5, 2015