“You have to slow down!”
Every few minutes, I’m hearing that.
It’s getting exhausting.
“80 is the new 65,” I want to explain,
but seeing that the limit is 55 here,
I don’t think that’s going to cut it.
She sucks in a sharp breath of air
for the eighteenth time this hour.
The drive is not going well.

As my mother age rises, her anxiety levels rise as well.
While this would bother me in the abstract no matter what,
it bothers me very concretely in that she is finding my driving less and less tolerable.
This is, of course, unacceptable,
as I am delightful driver.
I have not buried any bodies this month!

Mom does not appreciate this,
and backseat drives from my right.
I would just as soon give up driving and have us use public transportation,
but her anxiety makes the trains unbearable, as well.

So she needs the car, does not want to drive,
and we have no other drivers
and this is how I drive:
like a reckless madman, apparently.

I have not killed the woman once.
Not caused her a bit of damage.
The car has certainly been beaten up,
but no humans have been damaged in the process.
I don’t know where this lack of trust comes from.
I just wish she’d have a little faith in me,
is all.