Too far was never too much with Nona

at the wheel, plump arm propped on a fin, her old

car like that seventeenth year we were graduating from, shoddy

 

but workable.  Chauffeur diva, a designated

driver when tomorrow might never otherwise happen,

our Nona would floorboard the worry, Cadillac navigation what

 

we took as Nona’s answer to a worried God’s

calling.  Years later I’ll learn a Roman deity was also

named Nona, Nona the mover and shaker when it came to destiny

 

—ancients convinced Nona spun life

along timelines only the goddess knew.  No coincidence

given our Nona, her sedan cruising divine or parked solely to pivot.

 

At gathering thunder, the canvas top arose

like a coffin lid when Nona pushed a button, robotic arms

arising and rubber arching above, our future impaled with a plop.

 

The arrival hugs have yet to undo the pink-

faced drive into gamble.  Something indelible about

chance in a Caddy’s wild ride, blown shocks that set you flying

 

into storms you know you can’t handle.

Hold on, Nona shouts to the crowd.  It won’t be long—

our goddess winking as if she knows all we ever wanted was the ride.