We drive through lava fields to the Puʻuloa petroglyphs,
scream-singing “Wild Heart” and craning our necks toward pāhoehoe fields,
hot lava flows shaped into roping swirls of rock. Our kids,
somehow tweens, still wake us with nightmares, still find us funny
when we chase them around the house, yelling Pubertypubertypuberty!
We drive this empty road down the mountain, through craters and lava fields
going on forever, old eruptions hardened, new ones coming, steam building up unseen.
The country of eyerolls and talkback grows near, but for now, they’re still happy here,
no smartphones yet, no texting vacant-eyed selfies to friends. Distance from us
a future thing, too—like college and us pining for their voices, which just this morning
were whining and inescapable—them fighting over who sketched the better apple.
Later, we’ll be in our corners of the house on our screens.
I’ll want everyone to leave me alone, which is so often all I want.
Now, there they are in the backseat, grinning with smooth, pre-braces teeth,
and my daughter is beaming at me because we’re the ones who know every word,
we two share this secret code, and I’m craning my head back to grin at her,
and we’re singing together with our still-forming faces, with all our sweet unknowing.
