Drive Home

Drive Home

on the only cold night,
my dad drove
with the windows down.
my family slept behind
us in the front.
my dad joked. i can't remember
what about. we laughed.
the brisk air punched
my chest like medicine balls
thrown too hard.
i looked down at a speck
on my chest. a bumble bee
had flown through the open
window and died on my personal
front bumper. my dad kept hammering
on the jokes. it was black.
the refreshing air was lost
on the bee when it met me.
the air bit at my face, stung
the tears forming in the corner
of my swollen eyes.