For years,
I was afraid of driving.

My grandmother was killed
crossing a street
the same year
I was to learn
to drive.

The lesson seemed clear.

Distance yourself
from the machinery.

Fear the power 
of motion.

A 74-year-old woman
with four surviving children,
seven grandchildren,
took her last step.

Then I learned
what driving actually is.

A body
making thousands
of small decisions.

Pressure applied
to a pedal.

A hand adjusting
for a curve.

Attention translated
into motion.

I expected fear.

Instead,
I found agency.

The strange pleasure
of participating
in my own arrival.

The road unfolding
in direct proportion
to my willingness
to move through it.

I still think of her.

Seventy-four.

Still volunteering.

Still making plans.

A life
still moving
through the world.

I eventually learned

I love
the feeling
that the world
responds
to my willingness
to move through it.