1962 Baby Blue Chevrolet Impala

by Amy Soricelli

My  brother remembers my father by the cars he used to drive.
The dusty blues with ringing horns –
he would see the hopeful face of it as it turned the corner-
its headlights giant cartoon eyes the fender with its simple smile.
Years later it was red - bigger- 65 Ford Mustang/Candy Apple.
His girlfriend sat in the front seat blue eye-shadow smiles
pouty painted/red lips.
Us kids in the back first the movies then Chinese.
I would stare at her half-face in the side-view mirror…
Looking for what could love my father strong enough for him to leave us.
Her eyebrows in pencil thin-black- hands like braided chains tight in her lap.
Like a nervous bird I would sing all the songs I learned in school –
Each of us had a window.
He drove up once in a brand-new 1967 forest green Camaro -
his dry-cleaned bags of suits hung like soldiers sticking to my bare knees in the middle of July.
My brother remembers my father by the cars he used to drive.
He’d stare out the window while he drove us around our block my mother would ask
why he didn’t take us somewhere real.
Around the block was okay sometimes – it was enough for my brother.
He remembers mostly the cars.