Boarding the 6:20 a.m. to Seattle,
the BFF nudges the Prius onto the main deck
behind a red Fiat with an Obama/Biden sticker.
“Fiat stands for ‘fix it again, Tony,’ ” she says,
as I, the good audience, chuckle.

We grab pillows and lamby soft binkits
from the back seat, settle in for the ride
that will deliver us to the cancer center,
where a machine will scan her tumors.
I close my eyes, the steady thrum beneath us
the only indicator of movement,
a low growl that softens to a purr,
and we rest, surrounded by all these Jonahs
in the belly of the great rumbling beast.

I drift to a place of early memory,
of being held close to my father’s chest,
cradled in his strong arms, lulled to sleep
by his young heart, his voice resonating
a lullaby I can feel through my tiny body,
his big hand rubbing circles of love
into my back.

Jan Haag