OIL SPILLS AND KNUCKLE SCARS
Crouched in front of me,
I'm embraced with cold leather.
The tickle of his beard meets my cheek,
followed by the faint smell
of Budweiser on his breath.
"Are you ready buddy?"
he whispers,
as he lifts me
above the mountains
and rests me atop his shoulders.
Gravel and snow crunch
beneath his weathered,
steel-toe boots
as we reach the old worn shed
where so much love and oil
had been spilled.
The lights buzz on,
illuminating the wooden walls
decorated with posters
mom shouldn't see.
The space heater rumbles,
glowing a fiery red
and dad helps me collect the wrenches
perched high above my reach.
He called it tinkering
but I call it life.
Because greased metal slips,
and knuckles bleed,
but cuts heal
and memories like these,
make the scars worth remembering.
by Cody Curren
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