Complicated explanations of my car’s guts:
my father knew about these things.
10W-30,
10W-40.
Regular oil changes were a must
for ’85 Cavaliers
that leaked everything.
“They’re different thicknesses,” he said.
“Parkas and sweaters –
one for winter, the opposite for warmer months.”
His voice was prepared, comfortable with the lesson –
like he had been practicing giving his little girl
“The Viscosity Talk”
for quite some time now.
Three years ago, I bought a new car –
show-room finish, foreign engine, computerized this and that.
I miss the smell of oil on my hands.
I miss the thickness of these moments with my father.
2 comments:
Beautiful.
Where others would slip into the sentimental, you keep this the poetic. The Father is so simple and so complex, so lovely, with the startling last line--touching, meaning-filled.
Yes
That last chord
Great resonance.
This poem is also very sweet (still, I agree with Linda; you avoid sentimentality). It is ALSO very funny (the father practicing giving his little girl the viscosity talk). Love it.
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