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.