I drive around with my mother’s ashes when I’m lonely

palming the box

tapping my fingers on the sides as Patsy Cline sings love songs I will always cry along to

asking my mother in a voice just above a whisper at stop signs

or red lights

if I’ll be okay

to threats to discover one another, navigate

how we might react.

An indication of how we might

say things later

when it’s 3 am

on a Tuesday

and we’ve been drinking since

Sunday.