I could never read you at the end of all those car rides.

Was it exhaustion—like the sigh of an overworked parent?

Did I really make you babysit me?

Was it annoyance—like someone tired of the humdrum of routine?

Did you ever enjoy our long hugs?

 

I would always take that long pause

to see if you would be the one to ask for a hug

this time—

and the time after that—

and the time after that.

 

I only remember one time.

All I wanted was for you to pull me backward and say,

“Don’t I get a hug, little girl?” in my ear while embracing me liked a loved one.

 

You pulled me back with your words and your feigned hurt

     (and that was as close as it would get to my fantasy)

     when I pretended to leave without one.

If you hadn’t have done that,

I would’ve lost it later, upset about the lost opportunity to be in your arms.

Luckily, you pulled me back; you saved me from another long cry session.

I silently closed the car door, and buried myself in your outstretched arms and drowned in your cologne.

I would’ve rather had to have someone pry my dead body off you.

Every time we parted ways, it absolutely murdered me.

 

The only thing that made me smile was you flipping me off, teasingly, of course, as you drove away.

 

                                                --October 28, 2013