Hedy Habra

A Car Is A Car, Is A Car

Little did I know,

after my vehicle was

hit at an intersection 

that the loss of a car

faithful twenty-seven years

would echo if not equate

other voids, a voice,

a touch, a car is a car,

is a car, even if it had

breathed such few miles

with so much left to discover,  

but a car is only a car

after all, though it espoused

my shape like a lover's

embrace, welcomed my friends,

my pets, my struggles,

hopes, and sorrows. 

 

 

Valentine’s Day

 

He pulled his car to the top of the driveway, covered with snow.  He’d driven up this steep hill so often he could do it with eyes closed.  He was eager to ease the tension of the past weeks.  Her heart leapt when she opened the kitchen door. 

There he stood, seductive, his dark eyes framing the long-stemmed red rose he held in his hand: “Happy Valentine’s Day!” he said, smiling. This rose is perfect, she thought, nested delicately in baby’s breath and wrapped in glossy paper with red strips of silk ribbon. 

“Let’s have a drink,” she offered.  “I can’t stay now.  I’ll call you later.  We’ll go out to celebrate,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek.  Don’t walk me out; it’s terribly cold today.  See you.” 

As he was starting the engine, the cat meowed to come in.  She opened the kitchen door long enough to glance into the back seat where three long-stemmed red roses rested, neatly wrapped and ready to go.

 

First published by Parting Gifts