My Father's Garage

the smell of grease and paint hung in the air,
swirling around the dust motes that seemed to be the hallmark of Kentucky summer.

the rusted red bones of metal that didn’t look like anything,
the graveyard of Ford and Chevy,
but under his hands they turned into something beautiful;
curved lines and purple gloss.

Even as a child I could see
that the love that he couldn’t speak to me or my sisters,
was tied into his hands
and the way that he fit everything together into one piece,
perfect and joined,
was his way of putting forth a beauty into the world that he couldn’t begin to talk about.

but my father would never consider himself an artist,
no,
his back was stiff from manual labor.
His hands were calloused and broken, rough and wizened,
from a lifetime of work,
of putting his dreams on hold.
To take care of:
a wife
children
a sick mother that didn’t remember his name,
A father that is so much like him that they can’t see eye to eye,
because it’s hard for a soul to look into itself.

but in my father’s garage
he spoke in metal and paint and leather
in wood and lines and sparks
and in his garage that he built by himself
he spoke through his hands,
he spoke in love.