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Window Cracked Open
by Steve Coughlin

July 13, 2020 Contributed By: Steve Coughlin

Thousands of days turning the engine, striking a match, backing

the old Mercury out of the driveway. Thousands of errands

 

to the grocery store, the post office, with the window cracked open,

heater rattling, winter’s chill rushing in. My mother cradles a cigarette

 

between her fingers, taps ash into the street with her thumb. She tastes

menthol on her lips and tongue—inhales a smoke-filled breath

 

deep into her lungs. A few minutes to escape

the half-frozen chicken thawing on the counter, the rotary telephone

 

that never rings enough. Through the two-inch slit she hears brakes squeal

from melted snow, watches exhaust drift into the dull sky.

 

And maybe, Mom, I’m just home from school, twelve years old, removing my boots

on the porch as you drive past the discount liquor store, the half-filled

 

Kmart parking lot, or maybe I’m in high school walking from the bus stop

too concerned with the girl beside me to notice your taillights.

 

A few minutes from kids slamming the kitchen door, tossing backpacks

on the floor; from The Brady Bunch on the living room television,

 

music blasting and feet thumping upstairs. She craves the subtle burn

at the back of her throat, ignores her right hand red and numb

 

as she grips the wheel. A few minutes to imagine the warmth

of a different car—brand new, roof down—she could drive far from here.

 

She passes the empty storefronts on Main Street, the abandoned shoe factory

on Jefferson. She lights a second cigarette after turning onto Market

 

though our house is only a mile away. A few minutes to desire

release from this wind, from these arctic gusts of snow. A few minutes

 

to be with this man she imagines beside her—this man who is so perfectly

not my father, who is no particular man at all but the kindness of a hand

 

on her leg as she cruises what must be the California seaside, the lights

of a boardwalk Ferris wheel in the distance, or somewhere

 

in the desert under an oasis of sky, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains

before her, as the radio finally plays a summer tune

 

and your cigarette, Mom, the one between your fingers,

is only a small part of so much more.

 

 

Filed Under: Poetry Posted On: July 13, 2020

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