A Final Road Trip
At age 55, my mother was soon to marry a man more than 20 years her junior, and the age difference was only one reason why he seemed as unlikely a mate as anyone could have imagined for her. Mom is college educated, a voracious reader, and big-city urbane. Her husband-to-be never got past sixth grade, cannot read or write, and is red-neck rural. Yet when they somehow fell in love, my mother never looked back: it was pedal to the metal all the way. She was zooming along Route 55.
One thing Mom and her new love had very much in common was wanderlust. The two of them were always getting in the car and disappearing for days, just driving wherever fancy dictated. They especially loved to get lost and did so on purpose if it didn't happen by itself. Mom said that was how to make the most delightful surprise discoveries. She could read a map if they had one, and her husband had the excellent memory of an illiterate if they didn't, so finding the way back home was never a worry.
Being behind the wheel also used to be my mother's favorite stress relief; when troubles weighed heavy, she was likely to get out on the open road and head somewhere to clear her mind. So when she recently announced an intention to drive nearly 1,000 miles alone, I suspected that she was upset about something. Her stated reason for the trip was the failing health of her 89 year old brother, her only surviving sibling. She felt time was running short for them to see one another again. What hung unspoken between us was our mutual knowledge that her health is as precarious as his, if not more so. Whose remaining time was she really worried about?
Mom's driving ability these days is impaired by poor eyesight and lack of stamina. Mostly she restricts herself to daytime driving on familiar local streets, while her husband handles the occasional long distance driving they still do. 2,000 miles round trip by herself? I have an idea, I said; why didn't I come along to do the driving? Absolutely not, she replied. This was a drive she wanted to make alone, she would not be dissuaded, and how dare I denigrate her driving skills? (Yes, she really uses words like "denigrate"). She may be old, but she wasn't dead yet, Mom declared, and she would do what she wanted while she still could!
And so she did. First she drove the 600 miles to my house, which exhausted her so much that she slept most of the following four days. Energy somewhat restored, she left for her brother's on a Sunday and was to return home eight days later. Throughout that time, I diligently practiced the fine art of denial: Mom driving hundreds of miles in the congested Northeast? Not gonna think about it. Record-breaking rains and flash floods along her route home? Not gonna think about that, either. Just gonna wait for the home-safe call she promised to make.
When the phone finally rang with my mother's home number displayed on the Phone ID screen, I let out the breath I'd been holding for a week. How was your trip? I asked, silently praising the heavens for getting her home safely. Those were the last words I uttered for the next 20 minutes, as my mother poured out an emotional story of her visit, including repeated vows to never again hazard the New Jersey Turnpike. I listened, and after we hung up, I wrote this poem about what she told me.
THE FINAL ROAD TRIP
I had to come, though everyone said
"You're too old to drive" and "stay home instead."
I'm sure they meant well; still, I gave 'em the slip,
and I headed north on another road trip.
Though I'm over eighty, the road's kind to me.
I know how to take it where I have to be.
I paused when I needed to eat or to sleep,
then kept heading north on another road trip.
In just a few days, I made it to you,
exactly as I had promised to do.
When you clasped my hands in your shaky grip,
I knew I'd been right to risk this road trip.
You barely can hear and hardly can walk!
Be that as it may, we still managed to talk
and laugh over how we've lost most of the zip
that used to propel us on many a trip.
I had to come to you, as both of us know,
for soon you'll be travelling where I cannot go.
And although I left with a smile on my lips,
I guess we've both taken our final road trips.
One thing Mom and her new love had very much in common was wanderlust. The two of them were always getting in the car and disappearing for days, just driving wherever fancy dictated. They especially loved to get lost and did so on purpose if it didn't happen by itself. Mom said that was how to make the most delightful surprise discoveries. She could read a map if they had one, and her husband had the excellent memory of an illiterate if they didn't, so finding the way back home was never a worry.
Being behind the wheel also used to be my mother's favorite stress relief; when troubles weighed heavy, she was likely to get out on the open road and head somewhere to clear her mind. So when she recently announced an intention to drive nearly 1,000 miles alone, I suspected that she was upset about something. Her stated reason for the trip was the failing health of her 89 year old brother, her only surviving sibling. She felt time was running short for them to see one another again. What hung unspoken between us was our mutual knowledge that her health is as precarious as his, if not more so. Whose remaining time was she really worried about?
Mom's driving ability these days is impaired by poor eyesight and lack of stamina. Mostly she restricts herself to daytime driving on familiar local streets, while her husband handles the occasional long distance driving they still do. 2,000 miles round trip by herself? I have an idea, I said; why didn't I come along to do the driving? Absolutely not, she replied. This was a drive she wanted to make alone, she would not be dissuaded, and how dare I denigrate her driving skills? (Yes, she really uses words like "denigrate"). She may be old, but she wasn't dead yet, Mom declared, and she would do what she wanted while she still could!
And so she did. First she drove the 600 miles to my house, which exhausted her so much that she slept most of the following four days. Energy somewhat restored, she left for her brother's on a Sunday and was to return home eight days later. Throughout that time, I diligently practiced the fine art of denial: Mom driving hundreds of miles in the congested Northeast? Not gonna think about it. Record-breaking rains and flash floods along her route home? Not gonna think about that, either. Just gonna wait for the home-safe call she promised to make.
When the phone finally rang with my mother's home number displayed on the Phone ID screen, I let out the breath I'd been holding for a week. How was your trip? I asked, silently praising the heavens for getting her home safely. Those were the last words I uttered for the next 20 minutes, as my mother poured out an emotional story of her visit, including repeated vows to never again hazard the New Jersey Turnpike. I listened, and after we hung up, I wrote this poem about what she told me.
THE FINAL ROAD TRIP
I had to come, though everyone said
"You're too old to drive" and "stay home instead."
I'm sure they meant well; still, I gave 'em the slip,
and I headed north on another road trip.
Though I'm over eighty, the road's kind to me.
I know how to take it where I have to be.
I paused when I needed to eat or to sleep,
then kept heading north on another road trip.
In just a few days, I made it to you,
exactly as I had promised to do.
When you clasped my hands in your shaky grip,
I knew I'd been right to risk this road trip.
You barely can hear and hardly can walk!
Be that as it may, we still managed to talk
and laugh over how we've lost most of the zip
that used to propel us on many a trip.
I had to come to you, as both of us know,
for soon you'll be travelling where I cannot go.
And although I left with a smile on my lips,
I guess we've both taken our final road trips.
posted by Imagine That @ 2:54 PM
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