Rusted Heirloom

The car’s as cold as a morgue inside,

AC blasting, secrets stowed heavy like bodies

in the backseat. Outside, it’s a melting day,

but the doors are locked.

No registration or car documents

in the glovebox—just the medical histories

of my father’s mothers,

my mother’s fathers.

My mom drives, her hands knotted tight

on the wheel, holding more than just the car.

Whenever we have a big talk, she always drives,

to avoid my eyes in the rearview.

One day, this rusted red car will be mine,

and I’ll drive my child, confessing the same.

A family heirloom passed down like a curse,

no one will buy it, and the junkyard won’t crush it.

I can wash it, polish the rust,

but its heart is hard to replace.

It still drives, but my god,

am I afraid of running out of gas.

Ryan Robertson

Whitinsville MA, USA

Ryan Robertson is a freshman from Whitinsville, Massachusetts, double-majoring in creative-writing and English. Writing is a lifelong passion of his, so it means a lot for him to share his work with all of campus. He hopes readers of Title Wave connect with “Rusted Heirloom” as much as he did when writing it. He wishes to send a special thank you to Professor Soto’s poetry class for inspiring this poem.