My daughter hooks a left onto route 30
and forgets to accelerate into the turn
then stutters into the flow of traffic
a little too much.
I remind myself to look at the sky.
My mother never took me out
when I was learning to drive.
It was dad who braved the passenger seat
of the ’76 Chevy Malibu,
back when seatbelts
weren’t always there, back when
cars were sofas wrapped in sheet metal
and held together with duct tape,
big enough for legs to sprawl in the backseat.
Of course I took you driving she says when I accuse her.
But I don’t remember.
Why do our minds play games like that?
Why can’t I recall her there in the passenger seat?
She must have gripped the door handle, must have
cursed under her breath as I shifted out
into the whirl. I mean, how did I become
my mother, invisible and perched,
looking up at the horizon?
….
….
This poem is from the chapbook Glimpse by Maura Snell (Finishing Line Press), and can be found at https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/glimpse-by-maura-snell/
Maura Snell was born in New York, and has lived in Colorado, Ohio, Wisconsin, Massachusetts, and now calls Vermont her home. She holds an MFA in Writing from Bennington Writing Seminars, served as poetry editor at The Tishman Review, and works as a Legal Assistant in an “outpost” office of a large law firm. She reads and writes poetry whenever she can find the time – her favorite authors right now include Lisa Krueger, Didi Jackson, Lauren Davis, and Meaghan Quinn. Maura is most inspired by the quiet moments of grace in life, like that first sip of fresh hot coffee, that kiss of frost on the window on an October morning, the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen when her daughters come for a visit, or when a firefly alights on the window screen on a summer night. When she’s not working, writing, reading, or sleeping, Maura can usually be found on a hiking trail with her husband and two dogs.
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