Leave Taking
by Megeen R. Mulholland

My only girl,
all the roads
I’ve grown to know
with you in the back seat,
a slumber, angelic, aglow.
 
After our library story time,
where we’d dance and rhyme,
your imagination teeming
when the hour was done,
your eyelids drooping
with the last round sung,
you’d reach up and off we’d go
to an instantaneous nap,
with classical music on
the murmuring FM radio
 
you’d nod off
while I’d accelerate
in playful precision,
humming a sleepy song
while gauging speed, gas,
and traffic signals,
choosing non-stop routes
so as not to disturb you,
 
deciding on the spur which way to turn,
what road would take us a scenic route?
relying on whim and weather
to inspire the day’s destination,
maneuvering the station wagon
into a spot of sun or shade
once we’d finally arrive,
 
and I’d fold closed a map,
or open a mothering magazine
in my lap, only to watch you sleep,
feeling fortunate, privileged, singularly blessed
to eye you in the rear-view mirror
as you’d eventually awaken and smile,
sing, or giggle, showing me simply
my most contented self
reflected in you.
 
It is these quiet milestones
I will miss the most
when I return to work
and place you in another’s care,
no photos or mementos
of the everyday hours we’ve shared
a thermos or cooler
in the car between us
on suburban adventure,
seemingly mundane, common, regular,
but not without its dangers—
 
the pacified interior of our car,
hushing the anxiety, the urgency
I feel with the passing miles,
each day of my leave I leave behind us,
as if I’m trying to outrun,
within the given limits
of these winding back roads,
the turning of the dashboard clock
sweeping over these moments,
lulling and fleeting—
 
my steering your childhood
past the posted signs,
in uncharted directions,
my heart as compass,
taking the long way,
my tour with you
undeterred,
unyielding.