I sat in the lap of your Wrangler jeans.
Your rough, worn pants didn't matter that day
because my legs were in charge.
You let me control the pedals and wheel
while you shifted the gears of your ’95 Civic.
I felt the firm, yet gentle, clutch of your free left hand
around my waist.
I soaked in your words of encouragement, as I
rounded the corners of
the winding rural roads.
Three humid summer
days in a row
in that small Appalachian
mountain town
went like this.
On the fourth day,
when it was your turn to drive,
you took me on your four-wheeler instead.
With a slight head turn back toward me
and a husky Cowboy voice,
you instructed me to,
"Hold on, baby."
I held on—
all the way to the cornfield.
I felt nothing the whole time.
When I lost my grip,
everything felt different.
There were no more driving lessons after that.
Valerie Frost lives in Central Kentucky with her three joyful kiddos. Her poems have appeared in Eastern Iowa Review, ONE ART, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere.