Little Blue Toyota

 

Every time I pointed the nose
of our little blue Toyota
towards Tofino,
you went wild with joy:
barking, leaping from front seat to back,
from back to front,
big tail whapping me upside the face,
me laughing.

Once, after you died,
I parked in front of
the 126 kilometers to Tofino sign
to take a photo,
and when I looked at the picture, after,
I saw your image, clearly outlined,
through the rear window,
big black body, white on your chest.
I had moved after you died.
Perhaps your spirit was inhabiting the car
to stay near me.

When the car died, I felt such a pang,
leaving it at the wrecker's.
It was our chariot to the wild beaches,
your home away from home,
our raucuous rides, me singing, you barking,
all the way
through the mountains.

(Oh, we were wild!)

Each time we left the beach to return to the car,
you, head down in sorrow,
always carried a piece of driftwood
with you, a memento
of our lost wilderness shore.

Were you still in the car
when I left it there that day
and walked away?

Life is so full of painful partings.
Yours and mine was one of the hardest.
But oh! what joy we had
for a time,
when you and I and the world
were young.

Dog of Joy

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Through the Windshield