Visiting Dad
Sitting in the front seat of Mom’s white 96 Civic. It’s a baking hot Folsom day. Beads of sweat smear across my forehead as I reach to readjust my hair–a matted mess from the almost two-hour-long drive I fight every urge within me to throw a fit. I’m trying not to get restless or bored–we came too far for this. On any other day I’d go through with it but today, I have chosen to preserve my energy. “Vo… Van… Villapan?” the white lady officer stutters. We all get up. Mom flashes a look at her, too weary to correct her again from the last time. “Make sure there’s nothing in your pockets,” she warns me and sis. The seat on the bus sticks to my skin. I glance up at Mom as she she quietly stares off into the distance. We rumble past towering old stone buildings One, two, three… I count the windows, squinting my eyes to see if I can catch a glimpse of anyone inside The bus screeches to a stop …
