its ruthless syntax, and the ease with which it interjects
itself into our days. I thought how best to explain this—
this dark winter, but that wasn’t it, or beds unshared
but that isn’t exactly it either, until I remembered
Saturday afternoons spent with my father in the garage
and those broken cars one after another. At the time,
that’s what we could afford. Broken things. Saturdays,
there was always a game on the radio and I’d stand
beside him or lie under the engine, oil cascading from
the oilpan. Daddy would curse wildly, sometimes
about the car, sometimes about the game. Sometimes
Mama called for one or the other of us from upstairs and
I’d trudge up to see what she wanted with a sigh.
We sighed so much then. Funny. If you asked us
if we were happy, we’d say: Families. They are happy.
There’s a solace in broke-down cars: you can find what
is broken. You can make it whole again. I’d pop the hood,
peer into the sooty inside and Daddy would pass me parts
for my small hands to tender to each need. Daddy
scrambled into the front seat, turned a key and a roar
came out that would be cause for rejoicing. But time came,
(this is the inevitable part) when he would draw the white
handkerchief to his head in surrender. I would always ask
if we could've tried harder. Baby girl, he’d say. She’s gone.
