(for Mom and Donna
with thanks and love)

I am driving my mother’s car,
plunged back into the pool of my
16-year-old self, terrified that
I’ll do something dumb and hurt
the car I’ve just learned to drive,
and how can she trust me with
her baby car when, while teaching
me to drive, she sat in the passenger
seat gripping the door handle
as if ready to escape should I do
something dumb, and my sister,
two years younger, is in the back
seat watching everything, learning
to drive better than I can, and she
hasn’t been behind the wheel yet,
but she will, and she’ll be great
at this clutch thing—oops,
killed it again—it almost makes
me never want to drive, but Mom
says I have to drive, You can’t be
an independent woman in the world
if you can’t drive, look at Grandma
who needs to be driven everywhere,
you can drive, you will drive,
and so I am driving, have been for
almost a half century, and now
Mom’s not, so I drive her around
on Mom Mondays, next week in her
21st century clutchless car that my
sister has gone over and detailed like
the car goddess she is, this lovely
vehicle that I still don’t want to hurt,
and Mom says, You’ll be fine, the car
will be fine, I want you to drive it—
and I believe her, I believe her,
I believe her.