Rust

My dad keeps his Dodge Charger under a tarp during the winter.

When people ask about my father, that is the fact I think to lead with.

He keeps that thing in mint condition and gets it professionally detailed.

I think I remember him calling the little car his pride and joy, once.

But he also has this beat-up work van, a white hulk with no windows.

Plaster-dust erupts from the upholstery when you sit in the passenger seat.

There are no seats in the back so that he can haul plywood or sheetrock or whatever.

But there’s this car parked near Slätta Damm, just off the hiking trail.

It has never moved, for as long as we’ve lived in this neighbourhood.

It is a rusty old thing, rust-coloured and covered in blooming lichen.

The rustbucket is an eyesore; I wonder every day why no one has complained.

Why is it taking up that perfectly good parking spot, under such a nice tree?

The car reminds me of my dad in a way, like a scab I keep picking at.

But my father loves his Charger too much to let its tires touch salted roads.

So this strange, neglected hunk of scrap metal has nothing to do with him, really.

It’s only that some things, once left out in the cold, are never quite the same.