Very few of my childhood memories take place
not on the road. In one or two I am sitting under a tree or curtsying in my brother's magic show, but in nearly all of the rest, I am riding shotgun to some town or the other, and my mom's at the wheel. She had a little game she played. "I'm going to take a nap," she'd say and close (presumably) one eye, the eye I could see from the passenger side. "Tell me if a curve is coming."
In the beginning, it terrified me. I'd beg and plea. "Please wake up, mom. Please. We're going to die!" But after a while, it delighted me. I wanted to sing her a little sleep song, a little lullaby for the road. The air scattered the sunlight in a jillion different directions, and it was just us and glass and wheels spinning. We were a long way from home, but we knew if we kept driving and driving, we'd get there; we had each other and a six-pack of Diet Cokes and a golden arches on the horizon. Before we knew it, we'd be home, and only then, after we were almost settled, could we think of leaving again.
In the beginning, it terrified me. I'd beg and plea. "Please wake up, mom. Please. We're going to die!" But after a while, it delighted me. I wanted to sing her a little sleep song, a little lullaby for the road. The air scattered the sunlight in a jillion different directions, and it was just us and glass and wheels spinning. We were a long way from home, but we knew if we kept driving and driving, we'd get there; we had each other and a six-pack of Diet Cokes and a golden arches on the horizon. Before we knew it, we'd be home, and only then, after we were almost settled, could we think of leaving again.
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