My name is Aida Nique and I financially support the slowdown because the show

allows me to understand poems on a deeper level. I love the thoughtful lead in

major provides before each poem. Join me in making a gift to the slowdown

today. Head to slowdownshow.org slash donate.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

One afternoon, my mother taught me to drive after a trip to the grocery store for

dinner provisions. I was 16 years old. Instead of heading straight home, she

stared toward an empty section of the parking lot. Come on, let's go. She said in

a tone of exasperation. I jumped out of the passenger seat and ran around the

car before she could even open the door. For nearly a year, I had begged her for

lessons, especially after complaints about pickup after basketball practice.

She'd only say no and no. I eventually had given up. When I eased out of the

parking space, looking over my shoulder and signal properly, I elicit it and

oh, look at you. Unbeknownst to her, I spent Saturday afternoons learning from

older boys in a neighborhood who were sympathetic to my situation. My mom and I

drove the parking lot for an hour. Patiently, she doled out instructions. The

best drivers are aware of the road and other cars. Think defensively. It was one

of my last intimate memories with her. Not too many years later, in a

row reversal, owed to her illness, I drove her to doctor's appointments and to

Fairmount Park, where she'd sit her last days in the car looking at the school

kill river. It's a startling recognition, which today's poem beautifully

illustrates. Parents provide us with the skills they'll need us to perform when

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