Leaning In

You will learn to wind your car window down one day and stick your head out like an uncastrated dog, your tongue tasting escape. I will be fourteen years old again, leaning into your shout for directions. I will point forward and explain the number of roundabouts and you will spray vodka into my eyes from a water pistol as your mates speed away and roar. I will be a boring stranger, my short trousers and stained fleece torn apart by your teeth, opinions thrown on country lanes like litter. I am seventy-two years old, helping you check your tyre pressure, teaching you how to top up your oil. Your footwell is stuffed with vegetarian sausage roll packets and a tote bag of animal biscuits for your son. You wind your window down, tell me not to wait in the rain to wave you off with lips I already miss on my cheeks.