The backseat of my
grandfather’s Lincoln
smelled of warm leather
always saltwater
even folded into his
sloping
Mayfair driveway.
Two weeks of
washing with generic
soap bars
and his skin still
made me think of
hard work, cedar,
sandpaper.
The name inked
on his shoulder
his own
drooped and faded
quietly like the
sea memories
of a sailor.
They packed away
the soap and
I rolled up the
windows in the
Lincoln so I wouldn’t
forget
what summer was like.
I curve my hands
now
around the steering
wheel,
around his shoulders,
I press my forehead
to his happiness.
Wow….total control of the telling
Thank you so much.
such beauty and memories wrapped in these words.
Thank you, Kir!