Maintenance
for Louis Corrigan
When my old man died, he left me a truck,
a Chevy Blazer, old but cared for. I gave it to a cousin
because he often sat with my dad
and sometimes stayed overnight
when my dad was old and sick and I couldn’t get there.
A week or so later, another cousin called and offered
when my dad was old and sick and I couldn’t get there.
A week or so later, another cousin called and offered
to buy the Blazer for her father, who was broke
and needed wheels to get to a new job. Often he and my dad
had changed the oil and filters, and done routine work
and needed wheels to get to a new job. Often he and my dad
had changed the oil and filters, and done routine work
on the brakes. But I’d already given the Blazer away.
This uncle was a man I loved. He and my dad
were tight. I felt terrible—
This uncle was a man I loved. He and my dad
were tight. I felt terrible—
two deserving men and one truck.
“Maintenance is the life
of a car,” my old man would say
“Maintenance is the life
of a car,” my old man would say
as he pulled the Blazer onto the steel lifts,
and my uncle shoved a spout
into an oil can. Not bad advice
and my uncle shoved a spout
into an oil can. Not bad advice
from a man who would never see a doctor
and died a slow and agonizing death
from leukemia.
and died a slow and agonizing death
from leukemia.
