—SOMETHING’S BURNING

Smoking 

I am a backseat kid, sucking down front seat smoke that furls over the headrest like a dirty fist, stinging my eyes and ears. Mother’s fingers tremble while she holds her Tareyton like a knife. I see the deer, middle of the road, at the same time they do, but instead of swerving, Dad punches the accelerator much like he does me (THUMP!) but there’s a different, fuller-sounding THUMP! THUMP! as the animal bounces into a ditch. I wait for Mom to say something, for anyone to say something, but we just keep driving, the car hood slick, polished scarlet and smoking, the three of us driving to church on the only road we know.