We drove for hours through fields and rain,
Two parents, one child, a single lane.
The road was long, but hearts were light,
To grandpa’s house, with joy in sight.
His birthday candles stood with grace,
Eighty years carved in his face.
We carried stories, gifts, and cheer—
A family’s love, sincere and clear.
But then the gravel cracked with sound,
Three engines roared, the earth unwound.
My aunt, her kids, and husband too—
Four souls, yet cars? Not one, not two…
Three.
Like kings, alone in their metal thrones,
Each drove with schedules carved in stone.
“He had to go golfing.” “She had a spin.”
“No time to wait.” No room within.
They live just minutes down the way—
A brisk walk on a sunny day.
But no one paused to share a ride,
Their plans too sharp, their pride too wide.
I watched the trees inhale their smoke,
The earth beneath begin to choke.
And grandpa smiled, not knowing still
His birthday gift came with a bill.
I wish they’d walked. I wish they’d cared.
I wish the weight was more than shared.
For I still hope, and I still try—
To keep the air, the sea, the sky.
So when my own child’s child shall ask,
“What did you do, your one small task?”
I’ll say, I noticed. I spoke. I drove less.
I looked beyond my own address.
And maybe then, they’ll walk with me,
Beneath a tree we helped stay free.
