I drove dad’s Chevy for the first time one Sunday morning In a storm. His old, blue, dented, beat-up, ninety-seven Chevy. In a storm! Who would have even let me take control Of this two-ton machine on a sunny day, when The raindrops didn’t cover the windshield like a blanket, And the wipers actually helped to push them aside? When I couldn’t see my scared reflection in the puddles on the road? When the worn down tires had traction on the asphalt? I was going thirteen in a thirty-five, and the Old woman behind me honked her horn at me To the tune of a song abundant with cursing. My heart was beating at the speed of the piston’s pumping, And my knuckles were white on the wheel Like little snow-capped mountains. I was inches from the wheel, and I looked over the windshield Like a kid at an ice cream store, only My eyes were not filled with hope for a Rocky road sundae. Dad, on the other hand, Was as calm as the patter of the rain on the sunroof; Relaxed as the trees in their suburban backyards. I guess it all goes to show you How much faith my father has in me. Or, How stupid and stubborn he can be sometimes. But aren’t those really just the same things?