Objects in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear - Trina Wood

Somewhere along I-5 south of Portland, I wanted out. Out of this damn car, away from these damn kids, just out. I would hitch a ride home or maybe just walk for a few weeks. That sounded kinda good. Walk until my shoes fell apart, until the frustration and stress stopped oozing from my pores. You’d think with 14 years between them, the two spawns of Satan in the backseat wouldn’t fall into the patterns of sibling rivalry that were rampant in my family of five kids when I grew up.

My daughter was heading off for college in a few weeks for Christ’s sake and still she couldn’t keep from antagonizing the hell out of her four year old brother. Mom, he’s hitting me again!

Then don’t lay your pillow against his car seat; that’s his space.

But I don’t want to put my head in the sun, it’s too hot.

I could feel my teeth grinding together, reminding me of my latest trip to the dentist when he commented about the wear pattern and asked whether I was under a lot of stress. My grip on the steering wheel made my knuckles white while my husband dozed in the passenger seat, eyes closed, oblivious to the fact that I was close to driving them all off the road and into a ditch.

I looked into the rearview mirror to see Britt throwing her pillow up against the side window and pressing her face against it, closing her eyes to the sun beating in on her face. This was supposed to be fun, maybe our last family trip to the San Juans and we’d been miserable the whole ride home. I glanced at her face again, perched over the words in small print, objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

Were they? I felt I was losing her, all I wanted was to hold her tight, keep her safe, make sure she didn’t make mistakes.