The Government of Nature

Washing the Car with My Father

51 Washing the Car with My Father It is the twilight blue Chevrolet, four doors with no power but the engine, whitewall tires, no padding on the dashboard, the car I drive on dates, park on dark lanes to ask for a kiss, now my hand goes along the fender, wiping every spot, the suds in the bucket, my father standing at the gate, poor and proud, tall and stout, a wise man, a man troubled by a son gone missing in the head, drag racing his only car at night, traveling with hoodlums to leave the books for street life, naming mentors the men who pack guns and knives, a son gone missing from all the biblical truth, ten talents, prophecies, burning bushes, dirty cars washed on Saturday morning. He tells me not to miss a spot, to open the hood when I’m done so he can check the oil, the vital thing like blood, blood of kinship, blood spilled in the streets of Baltimore, blood oozing from the soul of a son walking prodigal paths leading to gutters. Years later I tell him the stories of what his brother-in-law did to me, and he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, wraps it in a white handkerchief for church, walks up the stairs with the aluminum crutch to scream at the feet of black Jesus and in these brittle years of his old age we grow deeper, talk way after midnight, peeping over the rail of his hospital bed as we wash the twilight blue Chevrolet. ...