Getaway Car
Celia Lawren
My sister’s ’63 Mustang and I were left behind
when she set off for college. Days crawled by
in my sleepy Florida town, as slowly as the rusty
freight train that rumbled through every night at 2.
Time sped up when I kicked that metal beast
into high gear, flying through orange groves,
on narrow country roads to towns even smaller
than mine. Anywhere was better than home,
where my nightgowned mother, fog-brained
on sleeping pills, would greet me after school
with taunts like, You made me sick today.
I swallowed her slurred words much like
the syrupy sweet cola stacked in the carport,
addicted to her disdain and resentments
as she was to her pills. Behind the wheel,
I was in control. As the radio blared
Little Deuce Coupe, I hit the open road shouting
the lyrics into the afternoon’s dazzling sunlight,
wind snapping my ponytail like a flag of freedom,
and raced to put distance between us.