Passengers by Drew Gachagua

Published in Qwani 02

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I miss evening drives,

with Classic 105 playing.

The bronze dust and rays,

the ombré swash of the sunset and,

how the trees that shaded the road,

turned the tarmac into a lightshow.

The unmoving warmth and commentary fused with the memory of music.

The anticipation of going wherever we were going.

Sometimes, it was the seasonal flowers that got to me;

how the light in its final stretch poured itself and stained like wine.

The sound of wheels rolling with the axle;

the spent brakes of a distant car turning at a corner;

the wake of night sounds.

Mum and me,

me and Mum.

It's been a long time since.

And for a while, the car was a place,

of condemnation,

where I had nowhere to run.

The anticipation was no longer genuine,

it became a wait;

an urge to get it over with.

So much has changed,

we go nowhere together and,

I never go anywhere at all.

I'm at the age where I cannot be her passenger,

without it being inconvenient.

I am now the passenger of a bus,

with foggy windows and rowdy children.

Soon enough I'll be the driver,

whether she will be my passenger,

on an evening with Classic 105 playing...

I know not.

I can't say I left her,

or she left me,

it's just easier this way

To communicate more with the writer:

Email: drewgachagua@gmail.com

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Photo by Enes Özbil