My Father's Old Car

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

Submitted: August 08, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 08, 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.


a.r. // my father's old car

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