My Friend the Wind
There was that one summer we decided to travel through Europe.
I don’t remember how old I was, but I was still a child.
We would start before dawn to avoid the heat.
Everywhere we went, it smelt like burnt asphalt.
My father drove our old Renault 4.
I mostly slept on the back seat.
My mother was in charge of the music.
She played cassettes on our white Hitachi.
My parents had bought it before the trip.
They were proud of it.
Look at how small it is, they would say.
Look at how cute it is.
My mom played the music my dad liked.
He was the driver, after all.
My Friend the Wind was on repeat.
My dad sang along, although he spoke no English.
He even danced a little in his seat.
It kept him awake, my mother said.
My mother kept playing the tapes without pause.
She was always afraid that he could fall asleep.
She fed him sandwiches and he ate them from her hand.
She made him stop often and drink some coffee
We had a red thermos with large white polka dots.
There was that one night we slept in the car,
as all hotels were full.
It was in Italy, I believe.
My mother held vigil the whole night.
I remember I awoke to a blue sky
And the sound of the sea by the side of the road.
We saw a lot of beautiful places that summer,
But I remember that morning best of all.
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