from the backseat

"Both hands on the wheel!"

A little voice, persistent. Perceptive. And a little paranoid, if I might add. No harm had ever come. But whenever she noticed--and how could she notice, from back there? The command would repeatedly come. She's always been one for rules. So I'd slide my hands up from their lackadaisical grip until the pattern inevitably repeated.

At some point she gave up, lost interest, became preoccupied with other things. She still sits back there, though she's as big as some grown-ups. It's just safer, it's just habit, though if she asked to move, I'd let her. Probably. Maybe. Because if she sat beside me, I'd never see her in the rearview, watching herself sing my music. I'd never get what I got tonight:

I sneak glances as I drive across town, and my grin becomes laughter with the pure pleasure. She hears me and trails off.

"What?" she half insists, half giggles, though she knows exactly. Chin up and smiling, she starts to explain, "I lip-synch in the mirror in my room to my 80s CD." There's no self-consciousness in her. Still smiling, I look back in the mirror, shrug, turn the song up a little louder. I drive on and we sing it together: "You can't start a fire without a spark."