The Truest Act

On the other side of the lake, a monotony
of hills. A crest of seagulls volley their calls.
In the car, gospel music bleeds on our way
to church. A friend carries the conversation
about friends and family, home and crime,
as my fiancé indulges in social media,
right ankle housed in its boot to heal
the bones. I almost forgot my mother
has died. What if memory is the truest act
of suffering? Construction on the road guides
us left, right. A sign to the museum catches
the sagging tree’s shadow. I sing the song
that blackens the car, and the moment grows legs.
When I park, I remind our friend to shut
the door lightly, careful of its frame.
I grab my fiancé’s scooter from the trunk.