oxide

Even in the foggy filter
of morning,
the cliff’s
colour is stunning, scarlet
and elementally it is
no different
than the scaling
on the car I just
got rid of.

When orange pock
marks appeared
above the
wheelwell, a countdown
of sorts
started in my head.

This reaction is hardwired.

Non-plussed,
my dad
would have tsk’d
and scrutinized saying-
That’s unfortunate.

He would also
have suggested
things like Turtle Wax,
more frequent washing,
less frequent washing,
and
a whole thesis defense
on ‘getting the salt off’.

He would
have humble-touted
preventative measures;
the evergreen parental
goto in every ‘life lesson’.

More than once
he mistook
the inevitable
as prognostic magic.

This is just another
reminder
in a long line of
adulting
post-its I absorbed
from him.

Are the roof shingles flat?
Is there gas in the lawn mower?
Do we need milk?

These memories are magic.

Like the vital mash of red earth at rock’s bottom.

Like the way tides always call you back.

Like the grains of wisdom that fall from me and swirl towards my children’s shore.

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