Boxed In

It is dark when I pull out into our driveway. Pattu is hunched over in the front seat tying her shoe laces. Ammu is in the back seat, headphones covering her ears, looking at the slowly lightening skies, hues of pink and purple in the horizon. The bluetooth connects and Taylor Swift sings “Welcome to New York” and we bop in our seats as we drive the short distance to the bus stop. It is 6:55 am when I park. For the next 10 minutes we listen to the next few tracks in 1989 (Taylor’s version). The girls sing along. I try to.

“Amma, did you see the video I sent you?”

Ammu’s voice breaks the group reverie. I pull up the video in question and we watch it together. Tears brim in my eyes. My voice is steady as I call out that I love her. The bus arrives in flashing red and yellow lights and the girls scramble to get out and shut the doors resoundingly.

It is 7:05 am when I am back in my garage again. I sit in the car until the next song finishes. I love this morning ritual of dropping my older two at the bus stop. I look forward to the silence some days. I love the music that binds us. Conversation is rare but there is something sacred about the shared space and time in an enclosed box.

I text “I love you” to my daughter and she responds to it with an “i luv u” and a finger heart. I send here more hearts and smile widely. I screenshot the exchange for my memory box.

In the days that come, I will dip into my digital vault fishing for these happy memories. They will see me through in my sunset years.

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