There’s no struggle over the radio dial today. My dad is fast asleep in the backseat. Maybe I feel powerful. I turn the music down, as to not wake my napping parents. Maybe I feel strange. I reminisce about the lulls between word games we played, squished in the backseat, as our dad drove and mom clutched onto her makeshift barf bag.
Wincing at the setting sun, despite my sunglasses, I sing along to stay alert. My dad stirs occasionally, to direct bits of driving wisdom to me.
“Blessed are the hungry; you said it, I believe it. Hunger is an escort to the deeper things of you.” I glance at my carsick mom to my right and peek at my dad through the rear-view mirror. And ask that their souls be stirred, even in their slumber.
It’s dark out now. My dad wakes and utters words of wisdom. Though aware that he’s saying something, I pay no attention until he says to me, “She sings in the Spirit,” of my current obsession on compact disc. I slip my sunglasses back on.
“I believe you are listening. I believe that you move at the sound of my voice.”
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