RETIREMENT

My mother, nee Virginie Pressley,

sits silent in the passenger

seat of her pale Cadillac

which matches her eyes a fern or jade

stone. A cold silence blows from vents

in the dashboard as rolling Georgia

back roads disappear behind us. No

matter how many miles we travel

distance remains between us.

My eyes cast sideways snagged by

roadside kitsch. No reaction from the right

two minutes

three

four minutes

five

I steer to the side and

turn the car back. A small

smile twitches Mother's face.

We must photograph ourselves

standing in front of a tourist trap shop

called Pressley's Nut House.