Mechanics

It starts with a clapped out Fiesta. An exhaust trails behind the plume of 1980’s smoke, barely hanging to this modern world. But it’s a start. A method of transport: movement.

As boyhood turns into manhood, egos arise, prickled, from the shaggy bottom, shinier and less grungy, eyeing eyries just out of reach. In turn, the size, make and expense of the car grows, paralleling masculinity as a train upon a track. Predictably linear. Straightforward pathways.

Midlife crises strike so dreams expand, filling cotton pages with darker scribblings of discontent, inaction. A status symbol is needed: BMW, Audi or Range Rover – something to make its mark when personality wavers as an eclipsing moon.

In old age, showiness dims, regressing to back-room spiders. A metal can will do. Something to transport legs from Point A to Point B. Nothing flashy.

Heaven awaits: car-less.

No mechanics clank here in cushioned tenderness. Only timelessness and the ebbing of seasons.