Pretend there’s a cup of water on the dashboard,
said the former ambulance driver,
and you must drive so carefully, so gently,
that you don’t spill a drop.

I tried with everything in me
after his surgery to make the drive home
as gentle as a feather drifting onto a cloud,
like dolphins smoothly generating momentum
even through the roughest water.

But unexpected road cracks, hidden bumps
and train tracks—even slowly rumbled over—
pained him. I noted every wince crinkling
his closed eyes, despairing that I could
not soften the blows.

I remember that drive home after surgery
on the longest day of the year, fresh stitches
seaming his newest incision, clutching ice
to the sore spot, pain pills in a small white
bag, but nothing for the worry about what
might come next.

As one in his pod of protectors, I so wanted
it to stop—try to bump him to the surface
for air, keep close, witness his suffering.

And on this summer solstice so many years
later, I remember gentling the car around
the cracks and divots, mid-afternoon traffic
parting, allowing us semi-smooth passage
over a usually bumpy sea. I pulled into the
driveway, and we released our held breaths,
looked at each other across the stretch
of a long friendship.

You were perfect, he said. You didn’t spill a drop.