faded like the
sunbleached newspapers
once in the hatchback
then I'm again facing
my yellow-eyed cat.
Nine years later hovers
the one goodbye I
never said.
You, unlike my cat,
got a goodbye
(not that you asked for it
not that you understood
anymore than I know
why you are my cat)
and no better for the words
afterall.
Reflection: This is an old poem I wrote as a young adult. My guess is that I wrote it in 1993 when I was in graduate school at Clemson. This Datsun was my first car--a steelish blue wagon, that I purchased to drive to Langley High for my senior year in 1986. It wasn't love at first sight, as old station wagons are far from stylish or cool, unlike the expensive first cars of some of my affluent Northern Virginia peers. But, I remember my dad talking me into it. He said it was a "good deal," and it did serve me well for several years.
It took me to three schools beyond Langley--Old Dominion, James Madison, then Clemson. And five boyfriends, two of whom I knew better than to ever date. It saw trips to Knoxville, Savannah, Atlanta, and Kentucky. It went on picnics at old mills and skipped school faithfully alongside me.
I think I have always marked time somewhat by objects--feel their permance when so much of life is intangible, coming and going, coming and going. I notice this is the second poem I've written about a car and that the injustice of my parents' giving my cat away without my knowledge sits deep. 4/8/2025
