Wildflowers traced the road’s edges
and danced to the harmonies of Eric Clapton.
My step-father sang to my mother while I peered out the window.
We were almost home.
My step-father motioned for me to sit up front and grab hold of the wheel.
The power of the vehicle drove through my veins
affecting me like Clapton affected the wildflowers.
A quick **** of the wheel sent my family and I off the road
into a world of slow-motion.

Blank images,
vague sounds,
that’s all I remember.
Until I saw my mother
laying motionless, traced by the wildflowers.

If only we were hollow.
Empty casings of flesh,
without eyes to desire,
devoid of a mouth that spouts regret-laced words.
“Life is short” is only ever said by those alive.

Sunlight bleeds
through my blinds
onto her as she slips on her shoes.

She looks up at me,
her eyes raining influence.

She answers her phone,
smiling.

"Hi," she says with a laugh.
"I'll be right over."
"Bye-bye. Love you, too."
She hangs up.
She waves bye.

I wish she would make up her mind.

“You’re too nice”
I apologized.
She sighed.

I’m not sure what she expected.

Sometimes I treat my Tuesday nights like Saturday nights.
Sometimes I regret that.
Sometimes is today.

My bare feet touch every dampened board
as I walk along the sand-dusted pier.
Seagulls cry softly in the background
as salt coats my skin.

A shadow dashes by muttering
angrily. I follow and his pace quickens
faster and faster until we are running.

The waves grow taller the further we run
until we reach the pier’s end.
The man stops and turns toward me.  He grips the railing.
His mouth opens to speak, but the swell breaks.

I find myself back on the beach watching
the waves drift in and out, eating away
at the land. Yet nothing changes.