At twelve, I rode home from summer camp
In the backseat of my parent’s car. All
Of the air had been siphoned out
And my mother wore braces on both hands
Or maybe just
On the other hand, a different hand, not
The same hand where she’d worn the brace
A week ago, when I was last home, and this –
This is when I knew there was no turning back.
This is when I understood for the first time
That we were only beginning our descent. This
Is when I realized there were no brakes –
Not even my dad knew how to stop the car.
Not now. Not ever again. I was twelve,
The same age my daughter is now.
* * *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days