I MISS YOUR CAR
by Jodie Senkyrik, ©, 2002

I miss your old car.
I was the one who worked on it,
and I miss working on your old car.

You were grateful
when I’d arrive and fix it.
When I’d finish,
you would ask me in.
I would take my shoes off
so as not to dirty your floor.
I’d wash my hands
and sit and smile
and then wash my hands some more.

And we would spend a moment
sharing tea.
We’d talk about the weather
and how wet I’d get
when I worked on it in the rain.

Sometimes, you’d offer me something to eat
or you’d tell me about your work
or laugh at something I said.
I would tell you about my life
and what I’d work on next
or try to get you to laugh again.

You shared about your travels
and the latest event you attended.
I’d ask your advice on places to go,
and I’d always offer advice on cars.

You would ask about the camping trip
I was planning with my dog.
I would listen as you talked
about what you read recently.

You’d comment about your computer
and I couldn’t help you there too much.
I would ask about your concerns
and listen as you sighed.

You would ask about my love life
and I’d lie
and say I have no one in mind, right now.

But, now you own a new car.
I can’t work on this new one.

I miss your old car.