My grandfather taught me to steer well before
my legs were long
enough to reach the gas.
He gave careful directions
over the roar of the hay baler,
mower, hiccupping tractor engine or
mallet of excitement
pounding against my tense knuckles,
white on the dark,
finger-worn wheel.
I’d get stuck steering in a constant circle,
kicking up sand with every go-round, while
he’d patiently wait for me to find a solution.
I never could.
I loved the smell of dirt
turned up in rows,
the screws, bolts, gasoline-smeared rags
and occasional soda bottles
bouncing in rusted compartments by the seat
and the rattle of tools from the blue tool box,
nailed down near the step,
more than the freedom
of picking which tractor path
to twist down,
or which soft rows of dirt to take.
These were Papa’s things
that smelled like the ground
filtering through his nine fingers.
I couldn’t picture him anywhere but his tractor.