small disasters

I’m writing down all these things so I can tell you later.

I promised I’d talk to you, even if I was scared, but sometimes it’s so much easier to write than to talk.

Do you remember when I came to pick you up the other night? I called you on the phone because I missed the turn. I was so overwhelmed I could barely get a word out.

You could tell.

That’s the small stuff you said. I’d be great in a natural disaster. I said. But this stuff stresses me out. This stuff is my hell.

I’ve been thinking about that.

You see, I wasn’t with you then. I wasn’t in the car on the phone with you. I wasn’t on my way to Heritage days in Syracuse to pick you up. I wasn’t on Antelope Drive and 2000 W. I was ensnared deep in the webbing of the past.

Maybe you could tell.

My mother used to yell at me. In the car. My childhood is dotted with memories of people yelling in cars, pricked like a pincushion or a voodoo doll. And me unable to escape.

But the worst was learning to drive.

It wasn’t so bad with my dad. I learned with him first because he could more easily keep a level head when I messed up. When it looked like I was heading to disaster.

But I wasn’t protected forever from driving with my mother in the front seat.

I have a memory. I’m pulled over in the parking lot of the 600 S and 700 E strip mall. The one with Noodles and Co. and Tonyburger. I’m parked next to the Starbucks. The one that moved out and is a boba place now. Everything is pink and they give you a punch card, one free boba for every ten you buy.

I’m pulled over. I’m parked outside the Starbucks. I’m gripping the steering wheel. I’m crying. I’m overwhelmed. My mother is in the front seat.

And I do not remember what came before.

I do not remember what small error escalated to verbal blows, what tiny infraction what small disaster led to me being incoherent and unable to drive.