indigo eli

and talk

In one act he gifted me this unspoken advice: don’t rely on a rainy day – do the important stuff when it matters, and it always matters.
So I decided, and have tried … to live from inside out, to drive around in my own skin even if it stands out on the road, to fuel up on those innermost cravings, to explore deeply and honestly, to play and ponder, reach sight to the edges where the world becomes wondrously incredible and incredibly horrific, to know what sense and nonsense feel like, to live scared some days because it’s worth pushing your own limits, to speak when needs be and to shut up sometimes and just sit … to take it all in. 
This one’s for the jag, dad.

and talk

my dad
had a triumph spitfire
a little racing car that he raced through life when he was young
and I think of me driving corners fast and straights slow in my old turtle
that you might like to call a 1971 volkswagen type 3 squareback in avocado green
because I can tell
you’re the type that likes to be able to tell when a metaphor is a metaphor
and when it isn’t

my dad, lean as a mast, had a boat too
but we might like to call that one a yacht
and state that technically he co-owned it
‘cause when he died the absent half automatically drifted over to his mate Elton
and I don’t remember Elton that much
but I do recall the liquid soft tones of his name lapping from others’ mouths
to my salty eardrums

my dad once picked up a shell
and put it to my ear
so I could hear right down that spiralling doorway into the place of possibilities
we all go
when we pass from this ocean into the next

my dad didn’t walk into the ocean
he floated in
rigged up on a bed not made for sinking or sailing
but he was flying high when he pushed off from shore, I’m sure of that
well I’m not
‘cause I didn’t actually get to see him that much
and not much, even more, near the end
but I do know that the morphine they had him on did the opposite
of anchor his sails

my dad knew he was dying
and he went out and bought that car he always wanted
a jag
purring red, with chrome and electric windows that my little brother refused to let stop still
and before him and before me and before his first son
my dad had a triumph spitfire

and I sure don’t know where the conversation would steer
what I would think or do with my dad right now if he were here
but if I met him back then
I’d like to sit for a while
maybe go for a drive
take those corners fast
and straights slow
and talk

and talk like he always said he wanted

© Indigo Eli. Terms of Use.
This entry was published on September 10, 2014 at 9:31 am. It’s filed under page, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

3 thoughts on “and talk

  1. leigh milne on said:

    Beautiful Indigo. I feel like I’ve now met your Dad. x

  2. magicpoet01 on said:

    Great homage to you Dad. They live with us, the dead. Anniversaries, bithdays are such precious times for memories and love.

  3. Russell on said:

    Oh my goodness…
    How beautiful 💜💜💜💜

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