Andrea Lianne Grabowski
Northwestern Michigan College
is October, 2019. I watch the ochre trees fly past, watch
his hands grip the top of the wheel, 64-year-old bones on I-75.
we know he has crickets in his brain. we don’t yet know
just how many. his chauffeur’s uniform of Levi’s & sweatshirt —
the color of blueberries — is the same as ever.
my mother reaches for him. JohnnyJohnnybecarefulplease.
I curl into the back seat of the Mazda
Tribute to when he didn’t slam so hard on the brakes.
his exhales bleed frustration he cannot transmit. distance
& judgement glitch on the radio. there is something
interfering with the broadcast. even my playlists can’t
drown out the memory of the days this 5-hour drive
was safe.
we find a parking spot. visit a garden of lazure painting &
a house full of spent roses. my mother whispers, Johnny’s
getting worse. I wonder how soon it will be before he loses
the word daughter, like these roses lost their petals, like
key & parking brake & transmission turned to
thick engine oil in his pre-frontal cortex
before they could make it to his throat.