We’re walking to the car.
I take a deep breath.
There’s nothing to worry about;
There’s no reason to stress.

I sit down,
put on my belt.
“I’m okay” I breathe in.
“I’m okay” I breathe out.

We’re on the road.
We’re all fine; he’s driving well.
But it’s swelling up inside of me.
I can feel it; I can tell.

I see a tree.
I smell his cologne.
I taste mint from my gum.
I feel the fabric of the seat that I’m on.
I hear music. I start to hum.

Still they come.
The flashbacks, the visions.
A distraction, a puddle.
“Something will certainly, most definitely, lead to a collision,”
my brain tells me.

My heart pounds.
My fingers tingle.
My hands clench into a fist.
My legs go numb.
I shut my eyes.

Open them.

I see a cloud.
I smell the Fresh Linen scent of the car’s airfreshner.
I taste the remnants of morning coffee.
I feel cool air hitting my face.
I hear the music staying right. On. Pace.

My heart rate slows.
My fists relax.
My shoulders fall.
“I’m okay,” I breathe in.
“I’m okay,” I breathe out.