Caught in the Breeze

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We are riding down the backshore,
where I am watching the waves crash against the rocks from the backseat car window.

The windows opened, with the cold breeze blowing.
I miss my mom's hair flying back into my face from her driver's seat.

Why can't she have that anymore?

She's driving again after all this sickness, she's driving with her voice, and weak hands, she's driving: the car, and my life's dictation all over again.

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