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It must have been 1950. Racine, Wisconsin.
Was I nineteen? Was my father sixty
or sixty-one — the age I am now?
It must have been my first car, a Plymouth.
My father never drove, nor my mother.
Only one Armenian family,
as I remember, owned a car back then.
It is evening and I am driving him
to the Veteran’s building for some event
or meeting that he is attending.
We are downtown before I realize that
he is uncertain of the address.
He is used to walking everywhere,
and has become disoriented in my car
(but I don’t realize any of this
at the time). I am being impatient
with him. I don’t like being his chauffeur,
I want to get on with my life, not
be a helpmate in his.
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Pull over, he says, reading my thoughts.
Which I do, feeling a little
uneasy, my conscience fighting
with my impatience. But I
pull over. He gets out and quickly
begins his hurried walk —
the walk I will always know
him by, and that I will always remember
when I think of him and think of myself.
He gets out in front of Woolworth’s.
It is dark out, but the streetlights
are not on, and I am there, alone
in the semi-darkness,
unable to move, my car stationed at the curb.
And I am there still, watching,
staring at his back as he moves away,
knowing the Veteran’s building
is just three blocks away.
I would call if he could hear me
but he is on his own and alone
as I am
with whatever this is that I am.
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