Night Drive With My Mother

It was almost midnight now. I stared tiredly out from the car at a stark, leafless tree that tore abruptly up through the soft grey of the sky at the front of the property. Night had fallen heavily on everything in sight, so that I could hardly discern the contours of the playground, or the shape of the school itself: everything seemed shrouded.

After a lengthy silence, I made ready to leave. I switched songs, this time to a tranquil acoustic demo, Prettiest Friend, that had crystallized itself into the summer before my freshman year. But the car, in its innocent senility, lost my spot in the playlist.

‘Son of a bitch,’ I muttered, trying to find my place again.


‘It always forgets.’