It’s now the end of June, and if I were ten years old
all my summer things would be packed up
in the trunk of my mother’s silver Chevy
and we’d be speeding northward, our back seat
piled high like hope and expectation.
Singing along to mixed tapes, I would be cramped,
sharing the passenger seat with a big collie-lab mix
who would spend the full two-hour trip standing
on my scrawny legs with his head out the window
sneezing me wet.
My little sister, in the back, would cry dramatically
at being torn apart from her dearest friend for two months,
then promptly fall asleep against the window,
even with her leg space eaten up by duffle bags
and her lap strewn with potted plants.
Mom would have spent the day packing and loading,
impossibly busy but with her brow like a clear morning sky
and when we’d lost the glow of the city lights she’d sigh
deeply, reclaiming the country air.