Poem: On Learning How To Drive

Author’s Note: First appeared on Quail Bell Magazine April 3rd, 2015. The photo was also taken by me. #so artistic

DSCN5961

I drove my parent’s
2000 Dodge Durango
we had had forever.

It was silver and
had a dark, faded leather
interior and

as far as safety,
the wobbling front seat was
questionable, plus

I still hadn’t quite
grasped all the basics needed
to get my license.

My dad taught me how
to drive most of the time since
my mother had a

bad habit when I
drove to grab my arm or scream.
Either way I lost.

One of those days we
were sitting at a stoplight
and I made a turn.

“Congratulations!”
he said. I was thrilled, but not
for too much longer.

“Takes talent to make
an illegal U-Turn.”
Oh joy. Sarcasm.

“Are you going to pass this
guy?” Dad hinted, a little
passive aggressive

in tone. “Uh,
I wasn’t planning on it.”
I said. Wrong answer.

As fathers and their
daughters do, yelling occurred.
New form of road rage.

Dad ate a Snickers
and I would stomp up to my room
when we both came home.

“Looks like you both had
quality father daughter
time.” Mom said, smirking.

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