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Ode to My Father | Claire Beaumont

Driving through a neighborhood too expensive for us in light traffic.

It’s where he grew up, and later returned as a college graduate.

The sunlight, cloying and insistent in the October afternoon,

Is absorbed by his work-worn hands on the steering wheel

Strong,

Firm,

With veins that bulge like the roots of a tree.

So unlike my own,

A watery creation

That drops everything

Carelessly tossed over.

He cranes his neck out the open window,

Squints in spite of his transition lenses.

He spots a neighborhood haunt.

A nondescript greasy spoon diner

With young clientele

Lounging on the sidewalk.

“I can’t believe they’re remodeling Renner’s,”

He exclaims

To no one in particular.

I don’t ask who they are.

I allow him to traverse this well-worn path

Of a simpler time

But offer my hand

To guide him over the potholes.

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