Week 1: Winding Up
The smell of diesel; my comfort.
Takes me back to Dad in the boat
Trying to prime an engine
With a mind of its own.
Her name was Chesapeake Saint
And she needed a new paint job
So badly
At 8 years old I would have done it myself.
The Saint must've never liked Dad,
Because all I can remember
Is him priming and trying
Priming and trying.
He'd prime that engine all of Saturday morning
With no result,
While us kids ran down her 30 foot sides
Like the daredevils we thought we were.
More times than not, I can hear
My mother, bitter, telling Dad,
"If you sold that rust bucket
We could afford a place of our own."
And Dad would turn to her, tired from priming
And reply, "I'd get rid of you before I got rid of her!"
And Mom would walk away from the fight,
Winding up for round two.
They fought over that boat for years
But Dad never budged. Not once.
And I was proud
Because that boat meant the world to me.
And whem Mom packed up her things
And moved away,
She had won her fight without words.
She had finally beaten Dad down.
He never primed the Saint again
And let her sit on a dry dock,
Comtemplating what could have been.
Then he sold my Chesapeake Saint out of hate.