Skipping Through the Exits Toward New Jersey

In the car, we fall into a loop. One highway bleeds into the next, into the cars, tunnels, and the flashing red lights of the city. Papa will yell at me to look more carefully at the map, but I am in another place entirely. He calms down after running another red, telling me that he's probably accrued a fine of over a hundred dollars. I'm scared we'll slam into the cars, and that Mama will have to find out we died by assuming something went wrong when we didn't pick up our phones. Then there is the matter of work, which I do not want to miss.

Hugh L. Carey Tunnel-

I always wanted to be important enough to have something named after me once I'm dead. I'm not entirely sure why, but a part of me needs to feel like my existence matters. I remember why I love living, and think about how miserable you were. On Sunday, you told me that you were okay with dying. That Thursday, you did.

I wonder what Death looks like, but I can't forget to hate you. And then I laugh at myself because I could never hate you, but being alone fucking sucks.

FDR Drive/ East Side/ Staten Island Ferry-

The streets always smell the same in the summer. First like soap, then flowers. The sun washes the day away with the puddles. I've always loved the sound of rain. We drive north every morning, and I always wonder how close Papa and I will become. We talk about small tricks, his childhood, whether or not he loves Mama, how many times he's fallen in love before he met her, and how many times he fell in love afterward. 

Every so often, I'll bring up your name and we'll laugh together at the memory. Every so often, he'll look over at me to make sure I'm not crying. I am not, most of the time. He peddles further and then complains that we'll be late. When I tell him that our ETA has changed to sooner, he exclaims that "it's because I'm breaking many laws to get you there on time!"

Harlem River/ George Washington Bridge-

"In a few kilometers," I tell Papa, "you're going to make a right. Left, I mean." Two things frustrate him about driving with me. The first is that I don't use the American metric system, and the second is that I always mix up my lefts and rights. I didn't use to. But now I can't seem to tell where I'm going or what I'm doing. Or how or why or when. 

We're almost there, which is a good thing because it means I'll be forced to think about something other than you. And then I'll see a flash of your face and get sad, but I won't always cry. I might later, though.

Queen Anne Road/ Ridgefield Park/ Bergenfield-

By now, I am sweating and I can't breathe but Papa is cold. He turns the A/C off, so I open my window, and my hair is flailing around my face in haphazard motions. I feel like a movie star. I don't listen to any music because Papa needs my GPS; I'm scared that playing it aloud will frustrate him. The sounds can't distract me, but Papa's reckless driving does. Then, my thoughts start screaming at me to think about you. 

By the time we get there, my hair needs to be patted down. It's frizzy, and I tuck my bangs behind my ears. It hurts me that I won't ever get to see you find your form as a father and that you won't ever see my bangs grow in. I don't always cry. I might later, though.