There it is: the turn.

That one turn onto that one street. 

It tells me exactly where we are despite the darkness in front of my closed eyelids.

The gentle rock and sway of our black Ford coming around the corner,

As familiar as the scent of my mom’s everyday perfume.

The turn that feels as rehearsed as the dance routines my sisters and I created 

To whatever song was being played through the house that day.

The turn that tells me we just passed the gazebo, 

Where there was likely a family of deer gracefully grazing on the green grass.

The grass that has been trampled under the Skechers of brutish devils

Wreaking havoc at block parties.

That turn into the neighborhood, my neighborhood.

The one that rouses me from my slumber 

And makes me suddenly aware of the soreness in my neck, 

And the itchiness on my right cheek from passing out with the seatbelt for a cradle.

My mother’s handiwork barely remains intact;

From pigtails to Pigpen,

My red barrette holding onto a single strand of my blonde hair.

The turn that tells me it’s show time.

Though I’m now awake, I keep my eyes closed

I let my short legs hang limply over the edge of my Graco booster seat—

The one that somehow survived my two sisters before me.

I lay still in my car seat

To convince my parents that I’m still asleep. 

Because after the turn, there’s only another turn and another after that

Until I’ll no longer have the steady hum of the engine to be comforted by. 

The turn that tells me the low murmurs leaking from the radio will soon become silent

And will instead be replaced by the low murmurs of Mom and Dad,

Contrasted with the high-pitched squealing of Emma and Sarah. 

The turn tells me it's bedtime, or more accurately, past my bedtime. 

Except there’s only one problem;

My legs won’t work.

It’s terrible, very terrible that I won’t be able to make the treacherous journey 

From the car into my bed. 

Something about that turn seems to always impair my joints and render them useless.

Even if they were functioning, 

I wouldn’t be able to use them since I’m clearly fast asleep.

And the only way I’ll be able to get to my bed 

Is if my dad scoops me up in his arms,

And carries me to my twin mattress 

Where my fuzzy friends wait for me with an ever-present smile.

The corners of my mouth twitch

As I try to suppress a grin of my own,

A grin that would reveal my sneaky scheming

And expose my plotting that has been in effect since that turn,

That has been in effect because of that turn,

The turn that tells me it’s closing time.

So maybe if I pretend to be asleep,

I won’t have to face that the night has come to an end,

Or accept defeat to laughter’s impermanence.

It never works though,

Believe me, I’ve tried. 

So I let my dad carry me, 

And I let my mom tuck me in. 

But then I wake up

And we got a new car.

And my mother doesn’t wear that perfume anymore.

And I only see the girls every couple of months.

And they knocked the gazebo down many years ago to make room for more power lines.

And my hair turned brown. 

And I’m too old to wear it in pigtails. 

And my feet touch the ground when I sit instead of bouncing with a toddler’s energy.

And my bedtime now is whatever wee hour of the morning I can get all my work done by.

And if my legs give out under me I have to keep going.

And I can’t feign sleep to have my parents carry me inside.

And I’m too old to be tucked in as snug as a bug.

And I’m no longer swimming in my twin but instead longing for a queen.

And now I’m the one in the driver’s seat. 

The destination will always be the same though;

With new laughs to be had, to be shared, to be remembered,

Home will always be just around the corner,

Just a turn away.