I’m in the car.

In front of me, my mother

drives down the road

whose twists, turns,

and traffic lights

I have already memorized.

“I can look after her,” I say.

We have been through our fair share

of earthquakes and hurricanes,

giant mountains that tower over us.

But still.  

After all, I am her older sister, and

only a two-year-old river separates us.

Without even looking at me,

my mother replies,

“Do you think I can trust you?”

I turn my gaze from the

window to the back of

my mother’s head.

She keeps her eyes on the road,

her hands gripped around the wheel.

My mother says something else

but all that translates is a slew of sounds

too fast, too muffled

to detangle into words.

Wind rushes in my ears,

whispering things

only I can hear

and not 

understand.