“If I had to be an object, what object would I be.”
I pulled into my nephew’s driveway, just as the stranger who had bought his van, “Big Rhonda,” was driving away. He took the moments to say goodbye and watch her disappear into someone else’s adventure, then he excitedly showed me his new used vintage sports car. As he explained how he was going to restore his new treasure, I knew if I had to be an object, I’d be a sports car.
The “Art of Aging if I Were a Vintage Sports Car”
“If I were a vintage sports car I’d blame my low energy on lack of petrol, which I’d gladly receive and soon be knocking down the highway. My sputtered start I’d blame on carbon buildup, ’til moaning cough turned to purr and wheels triumph the pavement. Missing parts I’d just ignore, accept my new replacements without a care. They’d fit well lubed, bolted, and snapped, while synthetic oil floated my pistons. I’d shine from being buffed and not a dent or scuff would blunder my reflection. Attracted to other carbon beings my hood would rumble when I see one admiring my condition. Why I’d hold back a laugh when some young being knowing the history of my vintage would lean over me, rub me smoothly, and leave a gasp of his hot breath upon my surface. He’d wipe it off with the cuff of his sleeve pulled over the palm of his hand. If I were lucky I’d leave with him, one who would be admiring and lovely, keeping me restored until he started his own family. Then I’d be passed on as if being reincarnated into the life of some other young admirer. There’d be nothing wrong with being a sports car. I’d skip those nursing homes with disgruntled attendants. I doubt I’d ever sit out in the yard, up on blocks with rusted spots, showing my age in disgraceful dissatisfying renditions.”
Terry Shepard is a current member of James City Poets. Her poetry can be found in Captured Moments: The Poetry Anthology of the James City Poets.