Here’s the lie I told my boyfriend when he crashed my first car:
I am not emotionally attached to it or anything, please don’t feel bad.
"Please," like his second favor would have been indifference.
Now when I look my grandfather in his weathered eyes,
where I think shapes are only floating slowly before him,
I feel my heart.
"If you are good to it, it will be good to you."
I love when he describes the day in the driveway when that little shiny fighter was wrapped in a big dealership bow.
I love when he asks about the mileage and if I’m changing the oil regularly and if Boston is a safe city to park her in.
I love when he shows me the proud picture of his first car and how his smile stayed the same.
I wonder if that was the first lie I told about my grandfather -
that I wasn’t emotionally attached to this thing that gives us something to talk about - the silver trinket that collects my loved ones and lulls me to sleep when I’m lost.
That grumbly bullet carried me all the way to the tip of New York when Lynnie passed, and she dropped me at my door when my boots were heavy.
What a fool to protect the careless man before her,
my first car, my matchbox car that makes me free.