Stories and Poems It is one of those Sunday afternoons driving home from your mother’s. The sun—racing alongside, peeking through trees, leading, beckoning us to come. The car windows are open, and the deafening breeze, warm from midday’s heat, rushes in and out as it pleases. You say something, which is swallowed quickly by gusty air. My thoughts, intrusive, wander back to your mother’s home, where unclear fragments of the argument I overheard between you and her lay out before me.