Tentative

Mom’s hand vices around tiny fingers, because tiny toes should not tread into traffic. But Mom’s grip slackens as yours tightens around a wheel that steers you onto the turnpike. And there’s an edge to her voice when she says, “Don’t be afraid, just go, go, go.” But you can’t. Because going means there will be no more soft words, and someone won’t always be waiting when you get home to tie braids in your hair and put love in your heart and ice cream on the table (after you’ve finished your veggies). So you breathe in, and as your foot presses the gas, the fear dissipates, and you go, go, go with the rest of them. But even when the passenger seat is empty, and you’re not so scared, you can’t help but think that tiny toes should not be treading into traffic.