Dad's car
On my way to work this morning, I drove behind
an old Jaguar, the same one Dad had mentioned
was his dream car.
I no longer remember why Dad
loved Jaguar −
Anglophilia?
Durability?
Beauty?
Panache?
I can't remember.
As I drove behind the oxblood
red Jaguar −
absorbing its vintage splendour, praying that the driver
doesn’t dissolve the warmth of the memories of my dad by
taking the next exit −
another question leaped to the
fore of my thoughts: Would Dad have
liked this same colour?