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My Mother’s Car

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Meng Po Reimagined

Meng Po Reimagined

Mike Wu ‘24

My mother’s car was always full.

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She was always in the driver seat Both hands gripping the steering wheel, Eyes wide and fixated on the road ahead of us, Despite how little she slept last night, Right foot forever on the accelerator, Until we reached our destination. She’d stop to get gas if she needed to.

In the passenger seat sat my sister. A miniature version of my mother, she was just as attentive, Although she’d usually doze off. She traced the maps for my mother, But she was directionally challenged. She would offer to take over driving, If she knew how to.

Behind my mother I sat, Forehead resting against the glass, Carving temporary friends into my own condensed breath, Mesmerized by the world around us flying past. Wherewerewegoing? I never knew. After all, I couldn’t even see the map from where I sat. All I asked for was more leg room.

I used to be the self proclaimed king of the backseat, But I always knew I’d be overthrown some day

By the clutter around my feet and by the mess in the trunk, This excess baggage my mother always carried with her, From overseas to her hospital bed,

From the workplace to the dining table. Artifacts of her past we weren’t allowed to touch.

Sometimes, my sister and I would add to the clutter, Which would anger my mother, Such as when I brought aboard my favorite t-shirt, White fabric soaked pink with my own blood, After an older kid busted my nose with a stick. I didn’t understand why she blamed me, But there was no room for pity or apologies in her car.

Finally, we reached one of our many destinations. And as we left for the next, I indulged in the little extra space for me to stretch my legs.

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