When I drive I am navigating through memories of my mother. I sit where she sat, feel the urge to ask the questions she asked, am reminded that my haircut now is what hers was then.
Unless I am giving someone a ride that day, any questions I ask are left to float around the spacious interior of a vehicle moving at 70 mph. Images flash through my mind as trees flash by the windows - long Loblolly pine trees, vertical lines ticking by as I travel backwards.
The day she picked me up in the white Volkswagon to go blackberry picking, wearing her work-gifted varsity style jacket that I wear now. The day she drove me to school in the white Toyota and walked me to class though it made her late to work. The day she drove me home from my failed driver's exam, talking me through my despair at 55 mph.
When I drive I feel like my mother and I have become one person. I've yet to decide if that is unnerving or comforting. When I drive, I have the urge to ask myself, "How was your day?"
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