Hima's Pages

The car rides back to the airport 
Are usually silent
Except for the occasional sighs of my father.
My mother's wrinkly fingers would slightly touch mine,
Huddled together in the backseat.
It's an hour's journey ,
As if to fill the silence,
My uncle curses potholes 
and reckless drivers.
I turn to the window,
Hiding my face from those around me.
Lest they see tears brimming in my eyes.