You’re on your way to pick me up at LAX again, where the traffic is as endless as California’s highways. I can hear you screaming already in your grey prius, even with the windows rolled up:

why does he live on the east coast; can’t he fly in somewhere closer; who are all these clowns in my way as you weave in and out of cars, find your way through the sun-stained faces of drivers who should have their licenses revoked, drive deeper into the concrete tangle unable to hear your Chill Out Instrumental Beats playlist until you arrive at my terminal in one piece. Finally I step into the car and you drive us to our usual spot where the familiar questions are asked: how was the flight, how’s work, how are you as we look through the steam of hot tofu soup

to see what if anything between us has changed since we’re stuck together counting the number of speedbumps we’ve crossed to reach each other on the lifelong road of being siblings. What we say this time is there are license plates to be counted on our way back home.