I wasn’t asked either. It was passed down;
my father’s story, which I’ve not deciphered.
He used to take me for drives in the car.
I haven’t solved the questions he left
though every one has changed. Some
are so polished they feel like answers.
Blood is still the greatest mystery.
We create from our own crumbling ruins.
When I couldn’t sleep, he’d sing.
You have me, there in your veins.
So what am I telling you, knowing
you’ll see through platitudes?
You have your own questions,
and you'll construct the memories that stick.
What you need, you’ll look for until you find it.
I was 2 years old in his brown pick up truck,
radio playing Hank Williams. When I couldn’t sleep,
he sang along. I shut my eyes. He drove us home.