Mama, Hold My Hand

As the plane takes off, the only words that come are the ones I could never bring myself to say, “I’m sorry.”

All I need to do is reach for her hand and hold it. That memory would last longer than the twenty minute drive we have to the airport. The moment continues to slip with the pass of every stop light.

Mom’s anxiety on the road is bad these days, she prefers backroads to the freeway. She struggles giving up the control of the wheel, but would rather not drive when someone else can. Every turn, sudden acceleration, unexpected brake…