Ode to Our Road

Nicole Throckmorton
Summer 2009

There are more momentous roads to write about-
Springsteen's is made of thunder;
Dylan's #61 goes nearly the whole length
of the Mississippi; Frost, held up
the choice of two from memory.
Add in Kerouac and his "the road is life"
business and I fear my planned road ode is toast,
stale, bond dry, and much too done, outclassed
by poets and troubadours. No competing with
the Roads Scholars, specialists in the
portentous premises and promises
of The Road.
###

When I was little, we burned it up
on summer days;
we three in that green, vinyl-topped LTD,
voluntary exiles from our home
leaving to preserve
Daddy's 3rd shift recovery sleep.
We'd pack for the day, climb in, take off,
headed somewhere. Anywhere
took at least twenty minutes. Twenty minutes
of big brother/little sister bickering, mom refereeing, and
radio sing-alongs before pool, park, Little League.
The way home, moments filled rehashing
feats and piffling failures between mouthfuls of Slurpee
or milkshake, open windows offering our
melodies to that road between
home and town, both connection and escape
no matter which destination we faced.

When I was older, in school,
Mom was working, driving
it without us, until pick-up from
piano lessons (me)
football practice (him)
and the day's debriefing:
"Nothing." His teen-aged
answer to her open-ended,
"What did you do today?"
Mine, more report, itemized by
morning, snack time, late morning, lunch,
recess, afternoon. Brother, image of cool,
offering commentary of sighs
and boredom-induced head slump
'til home.

When I was older, it was just me
in the car, promoted to the front seat
by way of my brother's entry
into marriage, fatherhood, then graduation
(in that order).
After school practices, late night
bus returns from away games,
all needing collection, transportation.
Mom was there, almost every time,
unless Grandma stepped in to help.
But the late night trips were all Mom's
traveling the dark road home from
ball games, talking, listening,
quiet conversations like those she'd had
with my brother after his near-midnight retrievals.

Later, I over hear her confess to a friend
who complained about the time spent
in transit: "I know my kids because
of those trips. Wouldn't trade them."

Now I'm grown, in a home at least
twenty minutes away from anywhere.
After my day is done, I climb in, take off
down the road, heading home.
I call Mom. She's on her way too.
We're not traveling the same route, but
we're still going the same way.
It's still our road, our time to share.
###

So the Boss can claim dominion of
The Road, his by way of a dozen-plus
tributes. And the others who've made it
symbol of Frontier, Freedom, Life.
They can keep The Road
and we'll keep Ours.