Necessary Turns

So I told him something
about dogs and something
about sunflowers
and one more thing about
train tickets
and taking water.
It was a hot day and he
was leaving to his own life.

I drove.

We missed every necessary
turn — my fault.
I was drifting
to another gone moment,
and another. Where was I?
The heat rose,
undulating — genies
off red brick buildings we
passed only accidentally;
(he knew a back way.)

I missed more turns.
Became nervous. Still,

he made his train.
From the platform I saw it all:
how from now on he would travel great distances
and I would travel other distances.
How before the rattle of wheel
against track deafened us, he
would always tell me chill out, Mom
but would know to bend and kiss
the top of my head and so,

before heading home,
I would stop,
buy a magazine,
watch commuters careen through the station’s
cool, cavernous hallways,
would think something about how
holding no ticket meant I
could be going anywhere now.