Home, Far Away

I am driving at 70 miles per hour,
mind goes blank for a few seconds
lost in thoughts of my hometown:
 
childhood, friends, silly pranks,
rain,
muddy playground,
my right index finger trying to balance
a drop of water that slid off a window grill,
first crush,
dried chrysanthemum tucked within the pages of a dictionary,
father –
a regular small-town boy who grew up too soon,
dropped out of college, skipped his teen years,
mother – left us too soon, no memory of her,
my first pet, a betta fish in a small bottle –
named him after my first crush,
fed him crumbs of dried worms and egg yolk,
the colours and flavours of a festival,
a twinkle in the eyes of the elephant god.
 
Two oceans apart,
thousands of miles apart,
thousands of memories tucked away.
I instinctively
swerve the car to the left side of the road,
the last thing I remember
is blinding lights
engulfing my being.  

The drop of water
slips off my finger.
The colours and flavours 
fade away.