My parents came by this week to see the place
where I work.
I try to picture
them: Climbing into the big green Chevy Lumina. Abbu reaching over, gently checking
to make sure Ammi is secure before clicking his own seatbelt into place. The
car rolls back out of the driveway, slowly, coming to a complete halt for one,
two, three full seconds before the horns of angry drivers begin to sound.
Undeterred, Abbu
checks every mirror twice. He looks all around him and waits for the nod from
Ammi confirming he may now put the car into gear and their journey may begin.
And they’re off.
In my head, I see them,
traveling at precisely ten miles per hour down Interstate 45. They navigate
the one-way downtown streets, all the time staring at the heights of the buildings
rather than at the streets themselves.
In this version of
events that I imagine, it is a great wonder they make it to see me at all. Yet
I know – I know! – that it could not
possibly have happened in any other way.