I didn’t know what roads we’d take eighty-two thousand miles ago.
“I bought a new car, Mom” … “What color is it?” … “Indigo.”
I didn’t know we’d escort her ashes in Illinois.
I didn’t know we’d dodge a windswept tumbleweed in Albuquerque.
I didn’t know we’d take a desperate left turn in St. Louis.
I didn’t know we’d go back to the Grand Canyon rim to gather pine cones.
I didn’t know any of it seven years ago.
I only knew you’d be the one to carry us home.
By Mark Johnson
May 21, 2019