It was a compact, silver-ridden, four-wheeled
monster; a beast to the eyes of a five-year-old,
who was also carsick easily,
and runs faster than even my mighty father.
The sanguine leather seat cover
stitched right down the middle of each oblong
cover, sheens a fainting colour
Into the thin air in the car. I didn’t know
how to oblige by the dictation
of catching colours, and
neither did I know why the leather smells
funny during summer, sad during winter.
I just kept my breathes tight, squeezing them,
like sewing a loosen bag of crops during
Harvest season, and I know I should not
ask my macilent father on why his car
smelled the way it did. I knew I would be up
for lectures, or some real beatings if he snaps.
Now, unlike the seats, the smells scintillate
even to this day, where my father
grows more taut, more bubbly in comparison,
And I cannot forget how the smell enthrals
me, haunts me, then warms me to
make me find comfort, making me tuck squirt
suavely in my own pain. And I, now caught in the stasis
of my own reveries and memories, can now
resort myself to the next day, without the smells,
the car, and my loquacious father. In tranquil.