By Cynthia Swan
Driving from my son’s home to my own
After a late night babysitting my grandson,
I drop into the stream of my thoughts, glide through a reverie,
Passing miles of houses, people at home doing people things.
Moving from couch to bed, eating chocolate, brushing teeth,
Tucking in the smallest child, glancing at the check book,
Turning out the light.
Traveling countless times between point A and B,
Day after day, night after night, week after week
Knowing the path as well as any Ant on the counter late at night
Quiet except for songs of survival
Punctuated by intent to arrive home with food for the family.