Lancer

You used fishing line to carefully hang it from the ceiling of my son's bedroom one week before you purposefully drove the Audi into a brick wall. The windshield bore the impressions of two heads. Who was with you? They ran away before the police ran in. Who were you taking to Hell? Or was it only you – the windshield revealing the truth of the monster within?

“I want it back,” you said of the Lancer when you didn’t die.

You never gave without taking more. The hurt of a child means nothing to you – never did – never will. I withstood your demands to save my child the hurt of thinking that grandpa loves the Lancer more then he loves him. Before you hurt Grandma, My son loved to see the giant Lancer that took up nearly a quarter of his ceiling – hung upside down so he could admire the details.

Now I have no way to return it to you. Your grandchildren hate you and no one wants the Lancer with the engine purchased as a gift to you from Mom so many, many years ago. The Lancer contains hundreds of hours of artwork, balsa, tissue, and paint patiently and lovingly poured into it by your often violent hands.

One night, in a rage against you, I nearly destroyed it. The visual image of smashing the delicate balsa, tearing the paint covered tissue, and the frame smashed beyond repair comforted me. I wanted to hurt and destroy a thing that mattered more to you than the scared faces of your hungry little daughters. I thought it would somehow make it all okay.

But I can’t destroy art, so it remains intact, with age beginning to show as putty shrinks and paint cracks; waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting to be off the ground again and loved or at least appreciated for what it is instead of what it represents.