Here we go, my sister and I, bags
packed, already getting that familiar
queasy feeling in our stomachs. Summer.
About to start the annual car ride up
to the Catskills in upstate New York,
where my grandparents and several
other families, rented bungalows
for the season. Dad is ready.
A chewed cigar is clenched between
his teeth, as he revs up the ’55
Chevy Belair in two-tone gray and salmon.
Mom sits up front–a daredevil, she–where
the constant ashy smell of dead cigar stubs
was most pungent. We start off singing,
A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall,
but reach a paltry count of seven-five,
before our knuckles are white from
gripping the backseat. Much as we loved
Dad, his capped head tended to rest
in the top portion of the steering wheel.
His driving was a series of speed-ups,
and sudden braking. Our faces greened,
as we both yelled, “Stop the car!”
One after the other, we’d throw up
every few miles. It never got better,
nor did Dad’s driving prowess.
Written for dversepoets.com/Road Trip
(recent, past, imagined or dreamed – using
rhythm, musing, food, smell, and sounds.)