My Father at the Wheel - July 12 2025

 

My Father at the Wheel

July 12 2025

Nothing but a sea

of slick 2-tone vinyl

on the long bench seat of my father’s car,

perfect

for cozying up to a lover

or squeezing in with friends.

Except on those hot summer days

when sun poured through the glass,

and bare legs, clammy with sweat

would stick

if at first they didn’t burn;

imagine eggs

sizzling on a cast iron pan.

I remember once

it was just the two of us in that big American car,

my father at the wheel

captain of his land yacht,

navigating the meandering streets

and charming cul de sacs

he’d effortlessly mapped in his head;

some clever planner’s

suburban dream.

And me, his passenger

slouched against the door

gazing vacantly out.

The radio was on his station,

and though I judged it insipid

and him along with it

knew enough not to reach for the dial.

He was, however, a smooth driver,

unfazed

by heavy traffic

tight passing

fast cars;

and that, at least

met with my grudging approval.

I don’t know what we talked about

all those years ago,

him speaking

careful with his words,

and me mostly grunting

eyes on the road.

As I said, a big car

with a big bench seat

most of which lay between us.

A vast gulf

of slick vinyl

we somehow couldn't cross.