I press my fingers to the cold glass,
third floor, the window humming like a held breath.
Interstate 45 slides below—
a gray artery, all intention.
My print fogs, fades.
The cars don’t look back.
The road snaps me loose.
Vinyl backseat of a Galaxie 500,
skin stuck, heat-burned,
coffee and smoke in the air.
My brother rides shotgun, calm.
My father leans forward,
as if belief could bend the needle.
Behind us, laughter.
Ahead—my uncle in his ’67 Mustang,
already pulling distance.
The engine screams; the Galaxie wheezes.
The Mustang goes clean, inevitable—
a bright animal, unafraid.
I am thrilled and terrified,
spine glued to the seat,
each mile a dare I never agreed to.
Then the bridge—
that long breath to Galveston—
and we watch the Mustang crest it first,
small against the water.
On the other side, the world corrects itself.
Red and blue bloom.
We pass slow, windows down.
Dad lifts his hand—
a wave, a grin, a stolen victory.
My uncle stands roadside, arms wide,
arguing with fate.
I laugh until it hurts,
until the road is only road again.
The beeping pulls me back.
Hospital light—white, forgetting.
My father, one hundred three,
tethered to machines
that breathe for him now.
Oxygen mask. Tight breaths.
He reaches for my hand.
No words.
Only skin and time.
I wonder why this is what surfaced—
the one moment he drove
like nothing could be taken from him,
like the road was wide enough
to forgive us all.
