Blind Spot

I am steady on the pedal and owning the center lane. My mood is easy and worryless and so is Tom Petty’s “Free Fallling” as it spills from my front speakers and fuels my miles per hour.

My golden hot fries lie in the seat to my right and I feed on the frenzy of road trippin’. I am momentarily oblivious while on cruise control. The tunes are glaring and the fries are tasting and a soccer mom’s mini van slows down in front of me--threatening to destroy my entire vibe.

All I desire is to get back to oblivion and ease, thus instinctively my left hand flicks the signal announcing to the universe that I shall be gliding to the left lane. Because I can. The mirrors are unnecessary because I am fully committed to my acceleration and my proclamation-- and my lane-changing commences...

...until.

She taps me on my left shoulder...ever so softly; in the tiniest of seconds I turn my head to her touch. Before I could frown at nothing being there, the Chevy is upon me. He is not only in full speed but nodding in right of way status, just as committed as I. That was a sure collision--canceling the free falling, the frenzy, and the fries.

Frozen, I sat, but still moving.

Dad taught me how to drive, but mom’s one piece of input to the lesson was to always check your blind spot.