We threw a mattress in the back of my car. Some clothes. Some food.
I packed eight books. He packed a skateboard.
We drove along the freeway behind a car the same as my mother's.
I thought about when she left and all the tears I know she cried driving away, northward bound.
She drove for five days. That's a lot of tears and math I can't do.
The driver had the same tanned skin my mother has now, and sun-bleached caramel hair I imagine she would have too had she not preferred the taste of licorice.
I've been reading the subtle art of not giving a **** and too many a-***** I've given about her leaving.
Let me record the last **** given in poetry and move on.