Something Usual In Any Other Circumstance

The afternoon is sunny after the storm
as Joe and I make our way
up the incline of Black Road
slow going in the old V.W. Bug
Our son rests on my lap
something not frowned upon
before child safety-seat laws
only he’s in a small cardboard box
inside a plastic bag
tied with a twist

I think of the many times
we’ve traveled this road
him wiggling on my lap
gurgling with glee
I attempt to shade his eyes
from the blaze of light
as we drive that final mile home

Today we take him home
for the last time
park in front of the empty lot
scorched black where our house stood
the week before
open the small cardboard box
untie the twist on the plastic bag
and one last time he is animated
playing on the sudden breeze
that rises to guide him to his rest