I have been driving for three
months now, wrecked the car's
sides twice, still driving in this car
to school and back. If only I could
wreck my own body without dying.
On my first day to drive without
an instructor— this man who
teaches people how to spin, turn,
stop when faced with danger:
black cats on a Friday, ladies in
white— Mama touched my elbow
with her mantra. I know your temper,
she says.
I heat up the car at dawn with my
father's constant sermons. The
dents are still there, the paint
remains unfinished, the soot
catches on the windows.
Inside, while speeding up
with the car into the wider alley, I
bring his words. I see father's
moustached mouth in the rear-view
mirror. The backseat and the trunk
are full of complaints.
There is no other way you can die,
they say.
But no, I will not die from a car
accident -- this accident on my
mind is suddenly meeting someone
on the way, driving another one
home with a kiss, falling for this person
or that who rides with me, killed by a
lover wanting to hitch with someone
else.
