Contents of a Dead Man's Car
A grieving father's epistle
Dear Son,
Officers told me where your car was towed. I had to look—for myself—at the last place you lived and died.
Among assorted items scattered within the crumpled chassis, I found the set of jumper cables I gave you last Christmas. The string of children’s necklace beads from your mom that you kept through your teenage years were still hanging from the rearview mirror. A book of plain white matches—half of which were cleanly plucked—and the spool of navy-blue thread on the floor must have been left from some occasion of which I have no awareness.
When I turned to leave the fenced-in pen—where other broken vehicles awaited the crusher—I saw your face for an instant in the cold blue glass mirror pane and then it faded easily as snow angels go quietly in spring.
If only that thread could repair you back to the living—or mend the tear in all the hearts of those of us held together by the brittle glue of memory.
Your loving father,
John
About the Creator
Jason J. Marchi
Jason is a newspaper reporter and fiction writer. His books include: Ode on a Martian Urn, The Legend of Hobbomock-The Sleeping Giant, The Growing Sweater, and Venus Remembered. Jason lives in his childhood home, in Guilford, Connecticut.
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More stories from Jason J. Marchi and writers in Poets and other communities.
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She stood near the cold fireplace, watching the second-hand tick down to the hour. In another minute, the clock's bird would emerge and warble the hour. She reached up and touched the clock, tracing the gentle slope of the farmhouse roof, then trailing down the lilac strewn side, to the white fence framed dooryard. She wished she was there, where the air would smell of lilacs rather than smoke.
By Judah LoVato4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This was poignant! Incredibly well-written.