In the sudden snow storm, the blizzard that white washed the landscape, you guided us home by instinct. Noone could see where fields and ditches and streets connected, so thick was winter’s blanket. The flakes falling like feathers from heaven weighed down my lashes and asked me to stay where I was, but you would not impose. We had to go despite the snow in spite of the snow to spite the snow.

Slowly, you turned the wheel and applied the gas. Navigating by virtue of the memory of millions of previously safe passages along that path. Your mind maneuvered us many miles safely to our door without incident. You knew the way by heart.

Years later, you got lost in the setting sun while making that very drive. That was when we clipped your wings.

 

 

by Karen Sullivan

Form: Prose Poetry