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Show She lies down on the cold cement and wedges her body under the car next to his. The engine sits inches away from his nose, grey and muddy pans, pipes, and bolts, the axle, the exhaust, parts she can't possibly name. It is dark and tight; his face is smudged in grease, long marks under his eyes, the backs of his hands bleeding from dings and scrapes. Can you hold this? She tries. The wrench feels awkward in her hand, heavier than it should be. Like this, not like that. He presses down on her hand. Now hold it. God bless it. Come on. Don't do this to me. Don't do this. He is cursing the car. She knows this. But it feels close. / need a light. Get the flashlight. It, too, is covered in grease, the same way she is now. Thumb prints, hand prints, places where the grease streaks in long lines. Shine it here. Little room for her to hold the light. Her elbow brushes the ground. No here. Here. Where I am looking not where you think I should be looking. Here. And he bangs the fat wrench against the engine, making it ring in her ears, her ears, her ears. I am not writing about my mother when I tell you that once, when I was maybe five years old, she sat with me until I fell asleep, holding my hands, running her fingers along my 183 |