The black ribbon of highway

unfurls before us.

It is well past midnight.

The stroke and I are driving

a semi on a three-year road trip.

We are exhausted,

sticky, smelly and stiff

from the long, stale ride.

We haven’t been out of the truck for hours and hours.

We haven’t had a chance to stretch our legs.

We are both wearing black plastic AFO’s

that makes our right legs numb.

Our bladders ache.

We have no idea if

or how it ends.

We don’t know

where we’re going.

We just know

we must drive.

Because that’s all we know

how to do.  We must keep

moving.  But we don’t know

why.  The situation is so

confusing.  Every time I turn

my head when I think

I see the answer

it dissipates like smoke.

The stroke is driving.

Bleary-eyed the stroke turns

the wheel over to me.

The seat is warm

where the stroke sat.

I take the sweaty

wheel in my grip.

We’re hauling precious

cargo, dragging its heavy load

behind us like a tail.

In the trailer we carry

all our grief.

We can’t afford

to lose this load.

I drive carefully

through the night.

The stroke sleeps in the passenger seat.

I drive until the white morning sun seeps

through the cab windows.

I glance at the stroke.

She has brown hair

and is wearing my red shirt.

When she lifts her sleepy head

I see she has my brown eyes—

my nose and my mouth—

she even has my four moles

high up on her cheek,

that look like the basin

of the big dipper.

She is me

me

me.

She has been me

all along.

We know what we have

to do: together we unhitch

the heavy trailer of our grief.

We leave it at a grimy truck stop

in the middle of nowhere.

The stroke says I’ll drive—

but the words come

from my mouth.