You Still Think I Hated Our Trip

You promised we would visit
France once I learned the language.
You told me we would look
over the Grand Canyon
before I finished high school

We're on our way to Death Valley.
It will be fun, you tell me.
It won't, I grumble.
We fight over the radio,
you tell me about Uncle Pete
who only listens to country.
You remember collecting rocks
at Stinson Beach with your dad.
I hate our trip.

I keep these rocks, swirled
red and brown, found
our last day in the desert.
I still have the picture of us,
running down the dunes.

by Emily Eakland