From The History of Luminous Motion by Scott Bradfield.

Mom was a world all her own, filled with secret thoughts and notions nobody else could see. With Mom I easily forgot Dad, who became little more than a premonition, a strange weighted tendency rather than a man, as if this was Mom's final retribution, making Dad the future. Mom was always now. Mom was that movement that never ceased. Mom lived in the world with me and nobody else, and every few days or so it seemed she was driving me to more strange new places in our untuned and ominously clattering beige Ford Rambler. It wasn't just motion, either. Mom possessed a certain geographical weight and mass; her motion was itself a place, a voice, a state of repose. No matter where we went we seemed to be where we had been before. We were more than a family, Mom and I. We were a quality of landscape. We were the map's name rather than some encoded or strategic position on it. We were like an MX missile, always moving but always already exactly where we were supposed to be. There were many times when I thought of Mom and me as a sort of weapon.