30/19: A Lesson in Hanging

You are sixteen years old
and your heart is racing. This
is a big day. You are hovering,
if done right your hovering is
motionless. If you mess it up,
the hovering will be shaky.
He tells you to let go, tells
you he’s got it. Deep breath,
hands in the right places, grit
of teeth, slight nod of head
and then it’s time. Your right
foot presses down as left
foot slowly lets go and he
releases. You are sixteen years
old, he is forty-one. He is giving
you a lesson in hanging.
Soon, you will do this alone
but not this morning. It is a
quiet Sunday morning, too
early even for church. Your
father is teaching you how
to drive, and today is about
hanging. The skill of balance.
Of listening to roar and calibrating
fuel, oil and break. You render
the car beautiful, in perfect
balance, motionless on the
forty-five degree urban hill
of asphalt and yellow stripes.
You are in your groove, and finally
after two failed attempts on
previous Sundays you both know.

You have this down. Left foot
lightens up clutch, right foot
cranks up gas, smooth
smooth smooth, beautiful
smooth move and you are no
longer hanging. This was the
final test, the make-or-break
one, the right of passage
to borrowed car (‘as long as
there is someone of legal driving
age, as your  student license
precludes’ your Papa’s voice constant
reminder in the mix tape in your mind).

Years later and again and again,
every hill of large or small takes
you back to this. To a girl in a
car with her father, both in the
balance of push and pull. To roots
to ground and wings to take flight.
In the hang time of life, the
between to and from spaces,
you remember this morning,
ordinary by all accounts but one.
This Sunday, before ring of
church bells and forgiveness
of sin, you found your groove.
This Sunday, by God's authority
your Papa anointed you road
ready, child of the street, rad.
Fearless.