Dad's Dashboard

Dad's Dashboard

I remember clutching onto the red stitching, neon against the black suede seats, as you tested acceleration speeds on narrow back roads. I remember learning how to change oil and being amazed by the web of insides that lay underneath the black hood. I remember sitting behind the steering wheel of that gorgeous machine for the first time. My 8-year-old legs could barely reach the pedals, but I helped you fix your brakes just the same.

The smell of the Civic is what I’ll miss the most, aside from causing accidents from people gawking at the bullet holes pocking the sides. Friends and family alike have found comfort in knowing their same question, “Does it still smell the same?” is satisfied by appeased nostrils.

I memorized discographies of Zeppelin, Sabbath, Eminem, and Bowie in that car.

I learned about the speed of light, our family tree, the reasons for your laughs and worries in that car. All those stories are still pungent with cigarette smoke.

And now it’s gone. Just like you left: all too quickly and suddenly, leaving my world spinning and my head aching. 

The Whole Damn World's Got Commitment Issues

The Whole Damn World's Got Commitment Issues

Pink Intimacy

Pink Intimacy

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