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Jacqueline Lim

The Day the Car was Scrapped – Jacqueline Lim

The day the car was scrapped,
my father got lost.
He lost the flair he had for steering his life
(and ours).
He lost his only way of loving.

My father couldn’t switch gears;
the only way he could love stalled.
There was nothing
to help drive home his acts of affection.

The stumbling, awkward, difficult
in-car, mid-journey conversations;
they too, were scrapped.
The assurance of being the guardian,
eavesdropping on the sounds of our steady breathing
that matched the rhythm of the engine;
that, too, was scrapped.

My father limped in his attempts
to love without words.
He hobbled,
occasionally pausing to navigate
and find his bearings
in this new landscape of loving.

He found answer in his legs.

He trudged through in-depth conversations,
marched steadfast into the embraces of his wife and children.
He learnt to stroll in the peace
of having one of us snooze on his lap;
feeling
the softness of our hair, our skin.

He believed that love should be shown,
not spoken.
And so he started walking,
He made detours,
to travel longer distances.

He would come home
flushed, perspiring,
with our favourite snacks.
Triumphant in his quest.
My father turned to walking
for that was the only form of transport
where he can steer his own path.

He always said to us
“I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.”