VW road Trip
I was writing bad poems
When you called today.
Your voice sounded
So far and faint
That I forgot
How close you are.
As we talked
I pulled up the pictures
Of those old VW busses.
I saw you there
At the back of one
Wrench in hand.
Metric, you reminded me.
And then you packed us in
Four children wide
With two dogs and one grandma
A flyswatter in her hand
And off we went
To shape the conversation
I’d have with my therapist later today
But only after
I heard you ask
What do you want?
Then the line cut.
The silence spread
Like the darkest part
Of our longest road trip
Across 1970s America.
I remember that middle seat
A stool custom cut to fit
Just between the driver and the passenger
So close to you then
I could touch the pepper of your stubble
Smell the grease of your
Amateur mechanic fingers.
We all bounced
As we thundered down
Highway after highway.
Queen ruled the radio,
The Flash Gordon soundtrack
Would not be released for two more years
But that’s the one I remember.
“Savior of the Universe!”
So that by the time you called back
And said sorry for the bad connection
I knew you would save every one of us.
Author: Rhonda Zimlich
Author Bio: Rhonda Zimlich lives in the Pacific Northwest where she teaches composition at the University of Oregon. She writes about inter-generational trauma and the unbreakable spirit of youth. Her work has appeared in Brevity, Past-Ten, Ink Stains, and others. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Follow her on Twitter @rhondazimlich.
