I posted this poem here five years ago but am re-blogging it in response to a daily prompt. It was published in Serendipity Poets Journal in 2013. You can click below to hear me read it.
As a teen-ager, I loved Grandma’s maroon Cadillac,
its soft, red velvet seats,
automatic windows, stereo speakers,
longed to take the wheel,
cruise up and down Main Street, radio blasting,
have fun fun fun till my granny took the caddy away.
I could never hold the wheel,
put the pedal to the medal.
With eyes that only saw objects and people up close in color,
I could only sit in the passenger seat
while Grandma negotiated the roads,
as we drove to the movies
or to the park for ice cream.
Through the years,
Grandma’s driving became more cautious, less certain.
Eventually, she sat in the passenger seat, said nothing
while I rode in back—
Dad drove us to restaurants or the theater.
When Grandma left this world,
her car and other possessions were sold.
Someone else drives her maroon Cadillac,
lucky to have such a car.
Who first taught you how to drive? Did you ever cruise Main Street?
We Shall Overcome
How to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver
That’s Life: New and Selected Poems
My Ideal Partner: How I Met, Married, and Cared for the Man I Loved Despite Debilitating Odds
Click to hear an audio trailer.
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