Curbside, Ronald Reagan Airport

It’s three in the afternoon
as the taxi tucks its yellow hull
between a limousine and busload
of boys in matching striped jerseys,
soccer players, I imagine.
They are all white teeth and big eyes
descending two at a time, becoming
a hive abuzz on the curb.

Your ankle looks worse,
my daughter says and I nod,
hesitant of hobbling on crutches
behind sturdy legs of team “Fusion”.
What happened? our driver asks,
her brows twin braids of shadow.
I tell her everything: the steps at
Arlington, the mist above headstones,
the distraction of parallel lines.
My daughter laughs lightly, our mutual
tiredness like a vast gray sea.

The driver raises her thin wrist
to the rearview mirror and unclips
a golden angel. Your protector,
she says as its cobalt beaded skirt
fans from her hand to mine.
I smile at the blessing in the sunlight
even though I’ve never believed in
angels. Now mine is this Latina,
weathered cheeks, chapped lips,
voice smooth as water over stone.

Published
California Writers Club Literary Review, 2020