Sentimental

Snowflakes trickle lightly through the air

while Stevie Wonder sings from the radio.

I sit in the car because ice skate scratches always fade slowly.

I follow the snowflakes that pass my nose

on the other side of the window,

and remember when we hadn’t changed.

It’s just a memory, but when the weather changes

I start to smell that peppermint air.

I can still see my breath cloud the window,

keeping time with the scratchy radio.

I rest my nose

gently on the Suburban seat belt, slowly

sniffing in. Slowly

breathing out. I’ve yet to uncover

the secret to unstuffy noses,

but I think the clear river air

could solve it all. The radio

reverberates like voices behind a glass window,

and outside the car window

the river ripples and reflects the sky.

The radio dial spins

to conversation

and kindred cachinnations exhaled

from rosy noses.

My dad’s strong nose

twitches with a smile outside the window.

Foggy puffs of air

condensate slowly

near his face, then fade; the apparitions changing

before they’re captured by my eyes. It’s still radio

silence from my grandmother, but for now the car radio

continues our connection. My brother’s nose

scrunches as he casts a wily

smirk through the window.

This image won’t fade; my mother and him arm in arm, slowly

skating through the clear river air.

The radio calls me back to the present,

inside the confines of the car windows.

My nose always runs a bit this time of year.

I stop now, and breathe deeply,

in the clear river air.