He Let Himself Be Buckled In
Lavina Blossom
He allowed himself to be strapped into the back seat. His torso was now firmly attached, which was what they wanted, to hold him down. He gave in to it. They said, relax. He tried, although the belt was tighter than necessary. And why just the torso. What of his limbs, what if he was jostled around so sharply his brain impacted his skull. That could happen to babies shaken too hard and it could happen to old men. And his neck, what about that? He had a long thin neck, few muscles to protect the upper vertebrae. He would have liked to protest now, but it was too late. They were in motion. He supposed that he would soon find out if this was enough protection, given the rapidly accelerating thrust of the car, his son-in-law pretending he was in a race. He must believe this belt was enough, even though he had doubts, which were rising in proportion to the speed they were gaining. He started to say "Slow down. Where is the fire?" He did not want to think of fire, though, of being trussed up like this in a fire. He had to rely on them, to trust they would look out for him, that they knew best.
Lavina Blossom grew up in rural Michigan and now lives in Southern California. Her poems have appeared in various publications, including The Paris Review, Poemeleon, Common Ground Review, Gyroscope Review, Book of Matches, and 3Elements Review. Her flash fiction has appeared in 10 by 10 Flash and Every Day Fiction. Two pieces are forthcoming in Okay Donkey.
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