Chase blasts classical music, 
the soundtrack to a horror movie,
as we roll down the car windows and feel the crisp wind underneath our painted fingernails.
We drive past rolling plains crammed with dead trees
and forests overflowing with live ones
and I’m ready to go home,
overripe mango rolling between my legs,
fried rice in tinfoil warming my lap,
and Manhattan, When I Was Young tucked in my tote bag next to 
Minntah’s flower art and my ginormous tin of dry shampoo.

Your mother calls every other day.
You used to pick up.
Your phone now vibrates in the plastic cup holder as you rest your hand on my clothed thigh.
We can communicate over Pinterest boards and those green bubble texts.
It’s OK.

She goes to change the playlist,
but dizzying bossa nova music comes on.
We accept our fate.