You turned over your baby car to me
so I could drive you on Thursdays—
and me on all other days—

a half century after you sat in another
passenger seat as I, with my learner’s permit,
mangled the clutch on your Toyota.

To your credit, not once did I see
your fingers grip the door handle in
your-then-my Elantra. Of course,

you couldn’t see well by then, though
you insisted otherwise. I refused the gift
at first, saying that I was afraid that

I’d boo-boo it (which I now have), and
you said, with uncommon gentleness,
“Janis, it’s just a car.”

It didn’t strike me then, but all these
years later, Ma, I hear the “I love you”
in that sentence.

I finally got the message.

•••

(In memory of the woman who was in labor with me on this day in 1958.)