my father's old car

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 04, 2018

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Submitted: August 04, 2018



My father's old car keys rest in my palm; the car itself is long gone by now, scrapped and scraped and reincarnated into new metal sheets and a new metal machine that will stay in a garage somewhere until history repeats.

My father's old car did not always stay in the garage. There was a time when he took it to work- ten hours a day, five days a week– but for the longest time, it stayed still in that cold room, and my father stayed home, and we were told it was a vacation, but why would he go on vacation to his own kitchen?

Whenever my father was on vacation, it smelled like whiskey, and I stayed in my room a lot, or I would go stay with my grandma for a while, and she would shake her head and ask me, ask me why my mother married my father.

Of course, if she left him at the altar, ran through the aisle of dead roses, threw off her shoes, and drove my father's car far away, I would not be alive, so people always follow their disbelief in my parents’ marriage with the belief that at least I came out of it all.

Sometimes I see the pain in my mother's eyes and wish I could trade in my soul to get hers back.

My mother's happiness was an old car, and mine is constructed out of its old parts. I know I cannot turn back time, bend it back into shape, but I wish there was a way I could share my happiness with her, give back to her for all that she has given up for me.

The best thing I can do for her now is to stop history from repeating itself and let her watch me live life without compromise, keys in hand.

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