My father never asks for directions.
Even when he’s lost – he looks quite confident.
He spends long hours studying his collection of maps.
If it’s not in the map – its existence is doubtful.
My mother asks everyone for directions,
even when she knows well where she’s going,
even if she is just two blocks from her house.
She looks like a lost child, waiting to be found,
not yet panicking, but on the verge of tears.
My father likes the smell of his old car,
its obedient noises, familiar caprices.
He feels it’s the only thing left where
he’s still in control, while all else is slipping
and moving away. He can’t stand it if someone
else is driving. Without his car –
life loses its meaning.
My mother goes to sleep early,
she will sleep soundly until the morning.
He watches her curled in the bed, fixes the blanket.
He sits in the armchair, a book on his lap,
thinking of driving to some unknown sight;
traveling there, he is dozing off,
his mouth opened and nose looking
as if it belonged to someone else –
in his sleep he is drawing
the map of his dreams.
I love this poem