Last Year

As I drove north along a country road
on a Saturday evening,
the setting sun tapped my shoulder
and reminded me to slow down.

The cracked mirror shone
as rosy stained glass,
reflecting those choppy images
that occasionally cross my mind.

Thumb the pages back a year,
I was darting down this same road,
four hours of prayers for your life.
It was raining so hard,
it was heartbreaking.
Fast just wasn't enough.

Fast,
like you driving us home,
rounding corners cautionless,
the day the family fell apart.

Fast,
like your motorcycle hit the hole.
They'd put off fixing that road.

Fast,
like my heart to see you lying there.

Fast
is how we had to grow up.
Fast
is how we grew together.
Fast
is how we lived.

Fast
is how I went along today,
until the year came back to me.

The sun set in my rearview mirror,
fading behind the mountains,
flooding my car with light.

Foot off the pedal.
Now I'm slowing down.


A/N: Done for a class assignment in which we had to take a line from another poet's poem. The line is the first one of this poem and is from Billy Collins' Reaper.