Three weeks ago, my mom and I were in the car on the highway.
As I looked up, the three most terrifying lights known to man were in the rear view mirror.
My heart, the after effect of repeated jumping jacks, my hands shooting bullets of nervousness, I asked myself, is this really happening.
Mom didn’t want to show it, but we both knew what could happen if the situation went south.
With ease, she pulled over.
Bearing a shake and twitch, her hand slowly reaching in the backseat.
The whole time I’m thinking, “Mom I’m not ready to lose you, put your hands back on the wheel.”
We both exchanged eyes of confusion.
It appears she was doing the speed limit, we both had on our seatbelts, full of love and respect, but that wasn’t the problem.
Anyone with eyes could tell we’re black.
The kinks of my hair, a wrap on hers clenched tight around her head, “Yes Officer, we are black.”
Mom was two seconds from getting out the car, and I said “Mom no, I love you.”
We both know how this ends.
She glanced at me with tears in her eyes.
No gun was fired, but it felt like we were already dead.
The officer came up to us and said, “Wrong car.”
Both of us let out a sign of relief but after we pulled off, we knew we wasn’t free.
I asked my mom was she ok, and the speed of the car quickly answered.