“Children tie the feet.” (Indian proverb)
That autumn morning my parents were footloose
once all six offspring boarded the bus.
I imagine them sitting side by side
on the bench seat of their brand-new car,
Dad’s right arm draped around Mom’s shoulders,
holding her close, his left hand relaxed over
the wheel as the V-8 engine powered
nineteen feet of American steel north.
I imagine Dad whistling as he steered
into the state park’s vacant lot.
The only people for miles, they stopped
and rolled down the windows to enjoy
Lake Michigan breezes and a picnic lunch.
They’d never gone parking, but the empty
expanse of station wagon stretched
behind as the afternoon stretched before.
Lulled by the rhythm of pewter waves
slapping wet-packed sand, aroused by
warmth of September leaves and that
new-car smell, their forty-something
selves united like twenty-somethings.
I cruised along nine months later,
bonus baby conceived in the
back of a cranberry Oldsmobile,
a seventh loop in the silver cord
to twine their ankles fast.
–
Amy Nemecek lives in Michigan with her husband, son, and two cats. Her poetry appears in Windhover, Time of Singing, Stirring, 3288 Review, Mothers Always Write, Snapdragon, Ancient Paths, and Indiana Voice Journal. She works as a book editor and loves baseball. When Amy isn’t tinkering with words, she enjoys walking along country roads and traveling with her family.