Morning Drives with Dad

The murky sky expands on the journey to school. The sun yawns, the radio a whisper. Decrepit bowls of morning porridge click in the backseat. I’m staring out the window, watching as we roll by dreary clouds, sleeping trees, bronze fields of elk, and the butte in its dry spectacle. Between the quaint Marysville streets, I notice the vacancy of the stag. We sigh in serenity to the sounds of Spa. Fingers fiddle with leather folders and pick skin in detested rhythm. The guilty silence from our estranged connection, only broken when he coughs “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

And there wasn’t.