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Deviant for 4 Years
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I never saw Grandpa Carte in a suit. Only in pictures, one
of him carrying me up the aisle, my mother and father’s wedding.
He was a man who cut the collars off his flannel shirts
so they didn’t bother him anymore. He tailored gloves  
to fit the remainder of the hand he lost working at the shop.
Grandpa worked around the house, often alone,
sometimes biting back when offered help.

I borrowed his Motor Trend and Automotive magazines
each month after he was done with them. I started
getting my own copies in the mail not long after. I was smaller
still when he taught me to drive the tractor, bigger again
when he took me out in the van and showed me how to drive.
Soon I was graduating, and he bought me a car. I remember
the disappointment when I ran it out of oil, failing
to check it how he had taught me. He fixed it,
like everything else, and I learned.

When I was a child, he built with me in the barn,
scraps of wood put together to make something new.
Slats of wood nailed, sloppy, made at the hands of a child.
Airplanes with pinwheels attached to the front—
colors spinning, a kaleidoscope. Hand-crafted homes
for birds, other odd-shaped contraptions.

Grandpa once cut me a y-shaped branch, sculpted the ends smooth,
threaded bike-tire inner tube through a piece of fabric,
stretched rubbery ends around the wood.  I launched rocks
into the tall grass out back for days after. I wanted,
I wanted, I wanted, and he gave. He asked no questions.
He filled the role an absent father left behind. I learned
how to ride  a bike. He watched as I climbed trees, higher
and higher, on our walks through the backwoods.
Grandpa mowed patterns in the golden, crested wheat grass,
and I ran through them, my make-shift corn maze to explore.

A phone call from my mom, day of his death,
and I learned those days were his favorite days.

Once, I drove Grandpa to the cancer doctor, braving
the snow and ice, driving him towards the unknown
answer to a difficult question. We were told, “come back
in six months.”  He said I was his good luck  charm—I hoped
it was true. Weeks later, I learned
my luck must have run out a long time ago.
abandoned albums circulate
from lonely record stores
to equally lonely hearts
and back again.
one man's worn-out vinyl
is another man's comfort
in a time of need, is another
man's love and joy.

recycled love songs go on and on

from the hands of one
broken heart to the empty palms
of someone new. someone searching
for a soundtrack to accompany the beating
of their heart as they find themselves
falling in love.

some spin records for better
and for worse until they scratch,
crackle and lose their song (until death
do they part).

and yet some grow tired
and some lose their love, crying
at the mention of a song
they once knew. with a broken heart
they hand off rejected records
to a lonely record store.

one man's worn-out vinyl
is another’s recycled love songs—
it goes on and on and on and


bringyourownbomb's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I'm just a girl that tries too hard to write. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don't. Nothing I say really matters, but enjoy it anyway.

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wannabeliterate Featured By Owner Feb 3, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave... but don't expect anything more comming along; I've been unable to write for half a year and counting --- this will change eventually, but this time I'm really not sure if it's going to be anytime soon.
bringyourownbomb Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2015  Student Writer
I'm sorry to hear that, it's not easy to get stuck unable to write, I recently went through the same thing. I hope you find your words again~
BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Oct 24, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank ya much for da fave!! Have a great weekend!  :)
wannabeliterate Featured By Owner Oct 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the watch! I'm going to take some time soon to rifle through your work; but from what I've seen, you're gorgeous. =)
bringyourownbomb Featured By Owner Oct 22, 2014  Student Writer
you're welcome! and thank you much, dear 
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