The ’55 Austin Healey


"You're there," is what Bradbury wrote
about a soul and where it dwells when someone dies.

Something your hand touched,
something you've created, he said, is where you'll stay.

But my father is not a painter or a poet,
has no green thumb on either hand, but
he resurrects rusty cars and makes them run.

I wonder, if when he passes, he will become
the wheels of his favorite project,
feeling the smooth, paved road as we drive.

Or will he become the bucket seats,
painstakingly stretched with red leather,
hugging me close on trips to town.

Perhaps he will become the mirrors,
keeping watch for reckless drivers,
and laughing at how the wind messes my hair.

His soul could dwell in any of these places,
so I will make sure to close doors gently, pat the hood when I park.

This car is his creation--
his books, paintings, and plants-- and I know he'll be there.

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