The kid in the car ahead of us

The kid in the car ahead of us

was drawing on the window—

shapes in the condensation,

a small hand pressing hard.

I remember doing that,

back when the back seat

was a prison and a kingdom,

back when I had nothing

but my own breath

and the glass

and the shapes I could make

before they disappeared.

A circle became a face.

A face became a thing

I couldn't name.

And then the sun through the windshield

heated the glass

and it all

came undone,

came apart,

came back to nothing.

The kid drew a smile,

erased it,

drew another,

erased that too.

My daughter slept beside me,

her head against the window,

her own breath fogging the glass

in small, unconscious marks.

I wanted to tell her

to draw something,

to press her hand against that glass

and make a mark,

to learn early

that what we make

doesn't last,

that the beauty

is in the making,

not in keeping it,

not in having it survive,

but in the moment

of creating it,

knowing it will fade,

and drawing anyway.

But she was sleeping,

and the kid ahead

had stopped drawing,

and the condensation

was evaporating

into the heat.