In the eighties, his seventies, my forties,
I flew south to drive him north. His pale
yellow Cadillac was waiting, full of luggage.
On the Interstate I set the cruise control.
We settled in to chat away the miles.

Talk turned
to my teenagers and driving.
In detail, with as many gestures
as allowed at the wheel, I told of times
when, as their passenger, I "braked"
I wondered aloud if a parent
ever gets over that.
     No, he replied.
Not even now?
     Not even now.

Did you know that I used to drive
your pink Lincoln at high speed
down the three-lane highway
through Gumbo Flats?
He had known
but never had said a word.

Locked in
just above speed limit,
we rode for a while in silence,
comfortable in our lemon leather seats.

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