Bodega Way

Riding in the backseat of a rented minivan,
the shimmering coast of the bay glinting through foggy windows
while we chug along the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge,
choppy water sparkling underneath the metal slats,
I lay on my back, counting the speckles amidst the carpeted ceiling—
black stars in a vast sky of grey cotton.

My dad, licking his fingers to wet his eyeballs
(a trick picked up during long nights as a Yellow trucker),
pushes hard on the gas pedal, his mind
controlling the wheels of the van
as he recalls his childhood paper route.

We pass through perfectly gridded neighborhoods—
the stucco houses blurring into one repeated structure
with the same shingled roof and two-car garage
that we eventually pull into with a screech

that jerks the seatbelt taught against my chest—
my sisters and I shout in protest—
the van door suddenly slides open
and my mother whips around, her finger planted firmly on her lips,
her eyebrows knit together in frustration.

The wiry front door creaks open and
Grandma Tiny appears, a large puff of cotton attached to a spindly body
that laughs and ushers us into the cramped home,
the sweet smell of Crisco and chocolate chips lingering in her wake,
although I much prefer oatmeal raisin.