Engine

Engine

It’s amazing what goes into the engine of the car.

Opening it up, seeing all the containers and parts,

this bit of metal, that hose connecting to something

you don't get. You think of the effort that goes into

crafting each one. Suddenly you're conscious of

every nick, every ding, every scratch or mark you've left.

All of your own imperfections.

When you slide underneath, you don’t feel as bad.

Every inch was designed with looks in mind,

to be something people want to see in their

driveways, their garages. Nobody sees the underside.

Not unless you’ve driven it up on your dad’s ramps and slid

underneath it on the cardboard that’s been in the basement

So long it's almost as soft as a blanket.

You lie in the cool shade of this machine,

seeing a side new side of it. The rough undercarriage,

not designed for looks, but for function.

Blue skies, cool air, your dad is handing

you the wrench. Twist it around, undo the screw, let the oil,

black from use and overuse, drain out and out and out.

You wonder why you never did this when you were a kid.

Filter next. You dad hands you a glove,

Stained with years’ worth of this very task.

The last of the oil is hot as it spills over

your gloved hand. New filter on. Tight, but not too tight.

You work your way out and hold the funnel while he pours

five quarts of new oil into the little plastic container, suspended

by who-knows-what inside the engine.

You close the hood of the car when you’re done.

You get behind the wheel.

It doesn’t remind you of the good old days.

Either of you.

But despite the marks, the scratches, the mistakes

And the missed opportunities,

His face is proud as the car comes to life.

Inspirational Works:

Harry Chapin, Cats in the Cradle

• Perhaps the seminal work in missed father-son opportunities. Me and my father have always been close to an extent I feel, but we've had our differences in the past. Those differences seem to matter less and less as time goes on. I'm lucky, I still have quite a lot of time with my father. I'm just glad I realize that now, rather than later.

Gordon Lightfoot, Wherefore and Why

• My father has never been a connoisseur of visual art, which is why this exhibit will not display much of it. But he has always loved music. When I was a kid, I remember he would put on his favorite albums in the car of older artists most of my friends had never heard of. This is one of the earliest songs I remember loving when I was a kid. I didn't understand it at all then, but that didn't stop me from singing along to it whenever it came on.

My car, Derek. A gift from my father; I don't know what I'd do without him.