I love her. She has many amazing qualities. Driving isn't one of them.
Today, she's taking me to an appointment in the city. I take off my glasses as I slide into her car. Not being able to see helps to relieve the quadricep spasms I experience as I stomp on the imaginary pedals on the passenger side of her car.
It's about twenty minutes on a nicely maintained two-lane highway to get from our house to the city. There's a few deaths every couple years as the highway is probably a little busier than it should be, and people get antsy commuting back and forth. They keep putting more money into making the road smoother, rather than wider, so it invites the perfect combination of frustration and speeding.
People like my mum can add to the frustration.
As my mum tells me what's been happening at church, the needle of the speedometer wanders around the speed limit like it's playing a game of "hot and cold". Cars come up behind us, then take their opportunities to pass. Halfway there, a Charger comes up hard, and stays glued a few feet back, aggressively peeking in and out from behind us. After a few minutes, he takes a chance that's just shy of comfortable, cuts back into the lane and roars off.
My mum stops her story to acknowledge him with a shrug and says, "We all meet at Walker," then continues telling me about the going-ons of the after-church McDonald's breakfast club. (so much less fun than the Judd Nelson, Molly Ringwald version)
My mum segues to a vegetable cutting story and I look at the day. Blue sky. White clouds. The drone of the tires. We have about 20 minutes to get to an appointment 15 minutes away. In my mum's story, someone is recognizing her for the work she does, and you can see how much it boosts her ego and affirms her worth. She beams in the retelling, like it's happening all over again.
We all meet at Walker. And my mum chirps on merrily about the lasagna her friend Susie made for her.
