The road is long and the seats are comfortable, unless
someone is screaming in the front and there’s silence
in the back and in between
there is the weight of the world, so heavy
that you can’t breathe.
But usually there’s Kirk Franklin or
Earth Wind & Fire coming through the speakers;
that is the sound of your home and heritage
even though it feels like your extended family
disowned you before you were born,
like maybe they knew you’d come out to be nothing
like anything they’d expected or experienced before—
but you’ll learn in a few decades
that everything you need is in the lyrics
inscribed on your bones.
The way, the truth, the life are all found on the road
to hell, and a handbasket isn’t big enough
for the bathwater needed to wash a soul clean,
but baby you’ve always been extreme with your anxieties.
What destination is there other than to be here
in between the now and the not yet?
We’re not there yet and that’s okay.
Turn up the music and sing. Scream if you need to,
especially when loneliness is the middle seat
between you and your older sibling,
stacks of coloring books and melted crayons
and snack-wrappers that your father told you to throw away
three rest stops ago when you said you didn’t have to go
so now you have to hold it. It hurts
to hold on when you want to let go and it’s hard
to sleep when you’re not sure if the next stop
will be the police or a place to rest.
When you finally get where you’re going
you’re welcomed with open arms.
To everyone’s horror
you hurl
because that’s what happens when you’ve been travelling
for three weeks through two countries
and you have no idea how to honor the stillness
that comes when the road ends.
V. H. King's Ink 
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