|
About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
|
Off the Cuff / My Other Journal #817072 added May 17, 2014 at 2:22am
Restrictions: None
Dealing with Steering
The car I would like to drive is already in my garage. What is missing from my car is me. Why that is, I’ll get to in a little while, but first, let me declare a few things.
When I drive, I do not, under any circumstances, text or talk on the phone, run red lights, cut in front of other cars, signal to the left but turn to the right, wrestle with a map, take a curve too late, nod off at the wheel, drink coffee and eat, or go over the speed limit. I also do not drink and drive, plow into trees, or veer into traffic as I swat at my kids. I have never swatted at them anyhow, and my kids, in their early forties, are too old to swat at, in the first place.
My driving license has the “safe driver” clause on it, and it has still several years to go for renewal. I have never been in an accident, not even a fender bender, in more than 20 years, and neither have I had a ticket for anything.
So why am I missing in the driver’s seat? Several years ago, being the conscientious couple that we are, we sold hubby’s car and decided to do with one car only. It would save the insurance costs and help the environment. In any case, we do go to most places together, and neither of us drive to work anymore.
God knows how we came to this, but it seems whenever we go out, hubby automatically hogs the steering wheel. The rare few times I get a chance to touch it are when I drive him home from the ophthalmologist’s office due to his dilated pupils. I am so used to this by now that I robotically take the passenger seat, as the auxiliary driver with the job of shouting directions, such as: “Slow down!” “Watch out on the left!” “Don’t go too close to the biker,” etc. But since he has the hold of the magic wheel, he is happy. He even encourages me to add my wisdom to his driving skills.
I don’t know what is with the male gender that attaches them to a car? To me, a car is a vehicle to take me to places. I demand a smooth ride and a good engine from it. That’s about it. It used to be, in the good olden days when we had children and jobs to go to, he had his own car and I had mine. Alone in my car, I used to play my kind of music, sing off-key to it, with the AC on and windows tightly closed, of course, and go to or stop at wherever my heart desired. Yet now, my off-key singing has abdicated, and on its throne sits my screeching from the passenger-seat.
I guess, I could put my foot down and tell hubby that I, too, would like to drive that toy, which isn’t totally his anyway, but I don’t. Why do I allow this? Because I still see him as the young man he once was,  and as always, my barely noticeable soft side lets him play with any toy he likes. 
------------------
Prompt: What's missing from your car to make it the greatest ride you could ever dream of?
|
© Copyright 2014 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
