Driving to North Carolina

1.

We are driving to North Carolina, my mother and me.
We depart early, from our Maryland home; we are on
the move after weeks of staying put, a kind of fear and
anger deep in our bones, this dangerous energy

driving our sense of survival. I pull my coat close; it is
cold. But there are signs of spring everywhere: dots of  
snowdrops in my mother’s yard, their delicate milk buds
resilient, delighting year after year with their knowing,
their sense of coming.

For nearly six weeks I could not write a poem, frozen
in the atmosphere of this place, my molecules slowing
and arranging themselves into fixed positions, my solid
state a barricade against encroaching storms. A friend
said we write more when we are busy – she is right, I see.

We are driven to put our words on paper; sometimes it’s
a small thing, an observation, sometimes a problem to
examine or solve. We know, after stasis, the only thing
to do is to move ourselves, to thaw, to look for some
thing that gives, to find the light.

2.

In Winston-Salem, we sit in a concert hall at my
mother’s alma mater, hearing young musicians
bringing interpretations of Beethoven and Rocherolle
to the stage; we slow down and breathe the southern air,
quiet our senses and spend the day listening.

We visit with friends and family, a cousin I seldom
see even though we grew up knowing each other and
admiring the life the other had; we reminisce: tennis
and hot summer days and Steve Martin’s genius.

We go see her dad, my mother’s favourite cousin
(you can see why), and when we leave she gives me
a cookbook to bring home to New Zealand, recipes
from Durham, the town driven mad this time of year
with Blue Devil fans (us too, admittedly) and their quest
for the winning trophy, also the town where I was born.

3.

I love the trip south but I am stuck some days, still.
I cannot ignore the now of these headlines: a Columbian
couple who have called California home for 35 years
cuffed and deported; new executive orders demanding
proof of citizenship and social security eligibility.
A Black Sea deal agreed – but peace? No,

peace seems precarious, even implausible. And yesterday
war plans texted in a simple chat app, a grand-scale security
breach defended (can we really call this  ‘national intelligence’
anymore?). Meanwhile, Mahmoud Khalil sits 1000 miles
from anyone he knows, and grocery prices are driven up

and up and up, and the man in charge (the man US voters
put in charge?) says Europe is freeloading and pathetic,
says he’ll bully his way to Greenland and call it friendly,
says climate change will actually be beneficial, says –
well, you know, so why I am writing this?

4.

Today, I will check on the chairs at Maryland Hall
(a small installation started in Dunedin a year ago)
– two chairs in a room alone, nothing more, facing
each other, awaiting two people who may sit and
silently take in a moment together, a moment

of quiet, of reflection, a moment shared, a moment
those two strangers did not have the day before. Today,
I donate a small sum to Randell Cottage, a trust driving
to secure ongoing support for writers – I pause on the
word trust, this notion of comfort, this power of believing,

of having faith. Today, I open the pages of Naomi Klein’s
Doppelganger (you gotta read it, a trusted friend says).
Today, I wonder where my brother could be; I wait for
bad news and read good news sent by my daughter.

I pause on the word good and thank goodness for
her goodness, her calm, her guarded optimism,
her quiet drive. Today, I will breathe through an hour
of yoga, stretch beyond my body’s bounds, look for
a kind of gentle space for change. I pause on the word

kind. I think of shelter, of lines by Craig Santos Perez,
his poem ‘A Sonnet at The Edge of the Reef’, his anguish,
his silence, that moment of despair but also perhaps
refuge, a gift for his young daughter. 

5.

On the trip north, through wide wet highways
of Carolina and Virginia, we can’t see
two cars in front of us, driving rain obscuring
our view.  It is cold and I pull my coat close.

After nine hours behind the wheel, we pull up
to the house and in my mother’s yard forsythia
on the incline has broken out, its colour brilliant
like the kōwhai that blooms in my Dunedin garden,
both blossoms yellow like fire and igniting

something like hope. I pause on the word hope,
something expectant, also related to trust. I think
this plant is kind. Forsythia: a protecting species,
clever like so many plants, driven by unsaid natural
laws to safeguard against everything, knowing how

to look forward, how to plan for eventual disaster,
their flowers becoming pendent in inclement weather,
guarding their wee capsules inside, tiny winged seeds
growing and preparing for what comes next, ready
to take flight.

Michelle Elvy
26 March 2025

Michelle Elvy is a writer, editor and teacher of creative writing. Her books include the everrumble and the other side of better, she has edited numerous anthologies, including Te Moana o Reo | Ocean of Languages, edited with Vaughan Rapatahana (The Cuba Press), and the forthcoming Poto! Iti te kupu, nui te kōrero| Short! The big book of small stories, edited with Kiri Piahana-Wong (MUP).