By Robin Greene
/ Poetry /
Driving our ‘55 Chevy, my mom sings Sinatra
while I sit beside to her, peering at Cunningham Park
as we travel past. But at five, what do I know?
What do I know of truth or lying or how this road
might take us anywhere? When the cop turns on
his siren, I spin around to see the flashing light,
and my mom stops singing. There’s panic in her silence
as she slows the car, finds a shoulder wide enough
to pull over on. And like a twin, the cop drives up
beside us on the grass, where the curve of an entrance
ramp widens to the parkway; I feel the coarse upholstery
against my legs as I sit, sweating in my new sundress,
my beautiful mother beside me—time’s register
switching to slow-motion, as I watch my mom rummaging
through her purse, then glancing at me long enough
to know I should say nothing. She yanks out a frayed
tissue and begins to weep—summoning gusty breaths
and tears that cascade down her face of invented sorrow.
By the time the cop arrives and sees her crying,
it’s he who’s apologizing. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says,
and my mom rolls down her window, dabbing her eyes
with the dirty tissue. It takes only a minute to let her go.
But before he does, the cop looks at me, a glance seeking
something—truth? Confirmation? I lower my eyes, say nothing.
When the cop speeds away, my mother rolls up her window,
laughing, ditching the wet tissue on the floor. I’d thought
we were going to jail. I’d thought about handcuffs. But now
I understood—my mother had lied—lied as if her life depended on it.