As a kid, often I would go on neighborhood adventures...
Warm breeze whispering to me, pavement underneath my light-up sketchers
Nostalgia was stained in the scene before I could even detect it
Sweat accumulating in my long hair, making my head itch...
There she was between a pair of oaks, dwelling in the tree's shade
Leaning against the bark, leaving no room for any leeway...
Overalls tucked away her feminine clothes, hair balled up in a cap
She noticed me at a glance but stared back to the grass
I let her be, entered her dark vicinity, hiding from the sun's endless beams
I smiled friendly as I laid down in the grass "What's up Emily?"
She explained she wanted a break, been in Dad's workshop all day
Perfecting their project that they been working on all day
I followed her home, showcased on her front lawn
Was an maroon corvette, that I could tell she set her heart on
Laying her hand on the car she built, proud of her accomplishment
"See, we were just hanging out and me and Daddy thought of this
He'd always call me his red corvette, the way I raced around the block
And for the rosy pigment pasted in my face when I would stop
So the concept for a father/daughter project popped into our heads
Said we wouldn't stop till we were dead, this is a project of our unrest!"
I was impressed, inspecting the vehicle as her Dad approached...
Key clenched in his hands, "What you say we get this bad boy on the road!"
I strapped myself in the backseat as we hit the max speed, scenary blurring around me
Felt like we were transcending time in a Delorean, breaking the boundaries
That memory always stuck with me, NOW back to the present...
I'm hanging on the end of my sentence, a period where it ended..
I look out to the sea of black suits and dresses in the crowd
Hands shaking and crumpling the paper I read aloud, best I put it down
Closed casket behind me, picture of a familiar complexion...
Those scarlet cheeks would always be instilled in my reflections
But there was a thought I couldn't escape in my head...
I was in the passenger seat in the same wreck, that mangled corvette...
Is it survivor's guilt? This bursting anger I possess?
Is it hatred towards myself that I couldn't save you from this??...
Not a scratch on me, but just inches next to my seat
They had to unclip your seat belt, pull you from the mess of debris
Gave you everything they had as you laid in rest on the street
Started CPR, but it was no good, they announced your death on the scene, 10:33
I don't feel blessed for surviving, it makes me wanna break down instead
My little red corvette, you still race through my head every night I lay down in bed.
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