At sixteen, your once-round face is sharply angled, boyhood carved away. For years you’ve kept me at a distance; now I can stare covertly from the passenger seat while you stare ahead at the road. An intersection approaches. Your hands tighten on the steering wheel. I say nothing; you need to know I trust you. You brake, a little late, but still in time. “Perfect,” I say softly. And is a mother’s heart ever not split in two? Soaring at the chance to sit so close beside you, aching because everything I teach you is teaching you how to leave.
Elizabeth Maria Naranjo is a writer in Tempe, Arizona. Her work has appeared in Brevity Magazine, Fractured Lit, and a few other places.