Passage

No 24/7 filling station, no Sunday trading,
no risk of crashing.
So you eased your car back
towards the corner of the supermarket car park,
opened your door,
stood on the hard, deserted surface
and announced that this was the moment.
I remember how I climbed across,
careful not to bump the gear lever,
or the two levers jutting from the steering column.
I remember how you laughed
when I plugged in the strap of the seatbelt.
And when you crouched beside me,
pointing at pedals,
the white graphic illustrating the progression of gears,
I wanted to tell you something about kindness
but I was too late -
you had the engine running
and before I knew it we were nudging forwards,
me with both hands on the wheel,
you, my first passenger.

A year later you arrived at our door,
carrier bag in one hand,
a caged budgerigar in the other.
It would just be a few nights you said,
until you sorted yourself out.
And we took the small roads that night,
the unlit, narrow lanes that chained
the edge of the town,
and with every window down
drove for miles.
And when we looked out at the top of Beacon Hill
and saw the road ebb straight and smooth in front of us,
I slipped the gear lever into neutral
and we coasted and coasted,
just like you showed me.