Daniel Donaghy
She’d be early even in a storm,
sliding the fading Dodge Dart
behind snow plow and salt truck,
pink curlers in her hair,
steam rushing from the radiator
when she forgot to fill it,
something else to shake my head at
when I slid in beside her
two blocks from school
so my friends wouldn’t see us
driving past them
with one headlight out
and rust rimming the bumpers,
so they wouldn’t hear
the rattling muffler
or the engine’s tapping valves.
And did I say thanks
after she reached over
and unlocked the door,
did I say anything
the whole ride home,
breath fogging the windows,
sleeves wiping the fog away
until finally we pulled
outside our house
and I went up to my room
with the given that she’d be
early again the next day,
and these years later
as a good foot falls,
I know I’ll have to go
soon to get my daughter
at early dismissal,
that first I’ll need to dig out
the car and the walk,
that I’ll need to let the engine
and the windows warm,
which will take a while
on a day like this, everything
frozen, slate sky pressing
down like a hand just over
a stand of birch trees,
and I’ll remember
one January day
when the phone rang
and I drove six hours
through a snow storm,
and I’ll know again
I should have left sooner,
and I’ll hear her breathing
into the receiver
as I say I love her
and hear her trying
to say it back,
finger over the tube
in her throat
until she has to give up
and cough-gasp for air,
and I’ll hear my sister
tell me to take my time,
there’s nothing I can do,
and I’ll take my time,
and I’ll get there too late,
and I’ll know again
I’ll never be forgiven.