The Blind Leading the Blind
Sometimes I didn’t understand where my father wanted me to shine it. He swore. I didn’t know the names of engine parts or tools. What kind of son was I anyway? I had no idea what was wrong with the car now. He was always swearing. It was clear life was a battle. Holding the flashlight for him was an honor as he didn’t think I was much good at anything—being given to flights of fancy and nose always in a book. But it also proved his point because I wasn’t much good at holding the light either. I got so bored I let it stray. This task was a microcosm of our relationship. I must have wanted to please him at some point. I can’t remember that far back to a time before he doused my spark of love for him. I got it back later in life when he needed me in a much larger way. I also finally realized that he wasn’t much good as a mechanic either, that I’d assumed he knew what he was doing. That was a long time ago when we were a young family in the house at the top of a hill on Home Street. Where the heart is. Or where it is, in theory.