Mom’s new man drove
a ’67 Chevelle SS.
I was a kid back then,
back before responsibility
eased into my life.
Mom didn’t say I love you.
It wasn’t in her to say.
But I’d wanted nothing more
than for someone to love me
and to mean it.
Mom called the tall man
with a redneck, Seth.
I called him an albatross
around her sunburned neck.
On Sundays,
Granddad took me
to a Church of Christ,
but I didn’t find Jesus
in those four walls.
The sins of attendees hung
thick, drawing the corners
of their lips to etch defeat
on their gravestones.
But what I didn’t know,
what I couldn’t have known,
is they didn’t let go of their faults.
I called on God
but not even my breath
returned a whisper.
I came to know the pastor
believed God could save me,
but there’d be a cold chance
in hell that God would forgive him,
but I convinced him he could
before he died.
On weekends, Mom sipped
Chardonnay from a bottle.
After church, Granddad told
me things I already knew about life.
But I humored him and was thankful
he had it all figured out.
Then he’d ask me if I wanted a hit from his joint.
I said that I didn’t.
I’d push through the door
on that tan three-bedroom home
on the working-class side of town.
Painters painted the window seals
and the trim brown.
A white fence circled the property.
A sprinkler spit water and moved
around the evenly trimmed lawn.
’80s rock or Amy Grant hit my ears
before I saw Mom.
I decorated autumn leaves around
the framed pictures on the cream walls.
I moved a rag across the mahogany coffee table.
She’d ask me, boy, she’d say,
what’d you learn at church?
Mom laughed when I told her
I learned nothing that I didn’t
already know.
Mom moved her long,
brown hair with grays
poking through her freckled face.
She wore a pink nightgown
that she didn’t change until Mondays.
She’d start weekend mornings
with wine until the afternoon
and rant over a case of cheap
beer with Seth when he was there.
The couple went back and forth.
I learned to put my mind somewhere else.
Come after midnight,
I’d enter the living room
and remove the simmering
cigarette from her fingers
and throw her arm over my shoulder.
I’d guide her to bed, tuck her in,
and asked God for her redemption.
Seth burst through the door
when all settled in for the night.
Mom and Seth went back and forth.
My ears burned with their curse words.
Granddad knew, or he didn’t want to admit,
what I already knew about his little girl;
she drank more than enough
as a functioning drunk.
I found Christ at thirteen
on the way home
with a half-gallon
of whole milk.
The news the preacher
taught rang into my ears.
I tagged along
with some friends
to a youth rally,
where speakers spoke
of this guy forgiving of sins,
wanting nothing in return.
I laughed inside
at the idea of a gift.
People know nothing comes
for free, most of all me.
Time went by, and what I prayed
for when I was twelve, it took root
in Mom.
She found out that Seth
had a daughter with another woman
and she divorced him.
Mom sobered up five years ago.
And now, we’re burying Seth.
Mom blamed herself, but Seth was already
dead inside before he veered into oncoming
traffic.
Mom found a good man, but she still wanted to say
goodbye to Seth.
Mom’s new man embraced her like a precious jewel.
I thanked God for what I couldn’t see in me.
I had faith, but now I have hope.
Sirens, cherries, and berries chased
a ’67 Chevelle SS as it blew passed
the turnpike.
The Chevelle lost its grip on the freeway
and flipped several times.
The man in the cherry car lived a thrill
but left laughing on a stretcher.
I left the cemetery with my wife, Nicole,
and we thanked God for the delayed memories.
I moved her long, dark bangs behind her ear
and kissed her.
And Nicole told me how in love she was with me.
I winked and told her that I loved her, too.
(© 2024 AC)
(Amazon Kindle, Spillwords, The Writers Club)
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
***
From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit:  Freddie Addery on Unsplash
