White-Knuckle Ride

June 14, 2010
Most people hate you for what you are,
But they do not see your true face.

You are like a convertible speeding down the highway of life.
You pulled away from the curb the day I was born,
Leaving skid marks and the smell of burning rubber
Where my cradle had been.

Your red leather bucket seats surround me,
Like my mother’s loving arms.
Your shoulder belt protects me,
Like my father’s strong hands.

I am behind the wheel, but not in control –
A bystander to my own existence.
The green and white exit signs relay the story of my life,

My first steps followed by my first stitches,


Dust choked air and dirt bikes,



The day Grampa died…



And the day Reilly was born.

The signs keep coming, but I can’t read them until they pass.
You have no brake pedal and there are no rest areas.

The rumble of your V-8 rattles my senses,
And the excitement of the unknown runs goosebumps down my spine.
I taste the tang of electricity in the air and hold on tight.
Time, after all, is a white-knuckle ride.

They say time heals all wounds,
And to that I say amen.
You have taught me how to live,

To forgive,

To remember,

And to forget.
These lessons will help me in life -

Again,

And again,

And again.

Though only time will tell.





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