It’s the old-fashioned hand signal for “stop”
or “slow down” that gets me, fingers hanging loosely,

elbow turned up, lower arm browned from
frequent out-the-window airings. And I—

piloting my mother’s car that I used to
drive her on Momdays—think, “Father.”

On a June day like this one, on my way to
the car wash, which he would heartily approve,

I see him in a stranger’s arm in the left turn lane,
Then he appears beside me, riding shotgun, grinning

his delighted, atta-girl grin as Mother hovers, too,
just for a moment, a quick drop-in to remind me

of their constant, nothing-but-love presence,
more than enough to last me the rest of my days.