The last time I was mostly
alone in the car. The last
time I drove through the hills
of Kentucky, open-eyed infant
in the lap of a seat, swaddled
in cushions, belts only a mother
knows how to buckle. The tickle
of nerves in my throat, the cough
of never having been here before.
How the sky met the top of backroad,
like an old friend that didn’t need
reintroduction. How I hoped you
would be the same when I finally
reached Virginia, how I drove
thirteen hours in a 1970s Buick,
and that was just today, stopping
only to feed and change the baby
I’d have to tell you was yours. How
I cleaned the spit up that happens
when altitudes change. Stopped
for gas at a lone and sketchy station,
sign in the dirty front window: full
service, guns, and beer. The quiet
when I cut the engine, asked the man
how much further. Depends, he says,
on which way you’re headed.
©Katherine Mecurio Gotthardt
V2 October 6, 2026
