We sit
side-by-side, mile after mile as I drive an old silver Focus borrowed from Su. With winch window handles and elementary electronics, it’s like the inside of an old
purse: stained upholstery, littered with wrappers and tissue. My friend Su hordes
her stinky stubbed out cigarette butts in the side door pocket; she doesn’t like
to pollute the environment when she pollutes herself.
She and I are
the same height so usually all I have to adjust is the radio station from rock
to talk ‘n doc. She’s not here today though so the radio is off, the car white-noising
the silence.
Grey sweat-panted
legs beside me are stretched under the dash, the seat reclined and hoodied head
turned away maybe sleeping. Like a farmer to her herd, I urge the cars driving around
us, redirecting, reacting and giving praise at 140 kilometers an hour. Counting
exits, I’m trying to remember, like every other time, if its 16 or 19 which
gets us there more directly.
Cutting across
all four busy lanes, on the exit ramp we clique up with other much nicer cars: a sport parent convoy.
From here on we’ll travel as a pack, our boys rousing from late nights and dull
weeks to fish around for socks and cleats, water bottles and mouth guards; Toronto’s
warrior class getting ready to play Saturday morning rugby with a kiss goodbye.
1st Assignment: Intro to Creative Writing: Car Characters:
Warrior Mom
