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Another Journey Past The Sun MAG
We're riding in a rented blue Oldsmobile,
squished together
like raisins in a tiny box.
My back is burnt
and my face cooled
by an air conditioner
and a cracked window.
I'm feeling the rocky bumps under me
and the windy road,
forever long, and
hoping we didn't hit any animals.
My eyes peer out the window
at the passing beige mountains
and red roofed homes.
The smell of Grandma's
designer imposter perfume
irritates my nose.
"I'm in a gas chamber," I say.
The sound of mom's raspy voice answers:
"how much longer?"
Finally our destination:
A tiny western village,
a souvenir capital
where dressed-up cowboys
sell us tacky trinkets
and grade f hot dogs.
Grandma sits down and chugs a beer
and I buy sunglasses to soothe my eyes.
Mom is lost
and Dad is flirting with a cowgirl;
My sister left home
before the vacation.
"Time to go,"
shouts my dad,
and we pile back in the car,
more squished from our junk,
and more uncomfortable than ever.
A drive home sounds relaxing,
I think.
Till I fall asleep
and Grandpa sits on and breaks
my glasses.
The sun sets
and coyotes
send out their call;
I lock my door.
My head is propped on the window
and the vibration wakes me;
Grandma's elbow is in my face.
I can't wait until we get back to the hotel.
And finally we do.
But it's not over,
because dad left his wallet at a souvenir stand,
so back we go -
another journey past the sun.
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