Sathya Tadinada

Period 3

9 December 2020

Washing the Car with My Father

I think the reason that the term “Twilight Blue” is used to describe the car is because it is

a metaphor of the father’s old age. Authors typically use the position of the sun in the sky to refer

to the age of a person or object (they would usually use the morning or dawn to describe

something young and twilight or midnight to describe something very old). In the poem, it says,

“in these brittle years of his old age we / grow deeper …” which indicates that the father is in the

later stages of his life now and that the son and father have reunited and are spending their last

days together. In addition, I think the color (being a very dark and “murky” twilight blue),

represents the life that the son has experienced during his time away from his father. It is subtly

mentioned that the son has faced abuse of some kind (“I tell him the stories / of what his brother-

in-law did to me …”) and this dark period of his life could be symbolized through the dark color

of the car.

One of the main elements of this poem is the routine of both the son and the father

washing the car. This is referenced in the line, “dirty cars washed on Saturday morning.” This

practice that they had symbolized how close they were and how washing the car was just part of

their lifestyle. When the son drifts away from the father, this bond between the two weakens but

it eventually comes back when the son visits the father in his twilight years. They talk about

washing the car towards the end, which symbolizes how they have connected with each other

again.
It is the twilight blue Chevrolet, walks up the stairs with the aluminum
four doors with no power but the engine, crutch to scream at the feet of black Jesus
whitewall tires, no padding on the and in these brittle years of his old age we
dashboard,
grow deeper, talk way after midnight,
the car I drive on dates, park on dark lanes
peeping over the rail of his hospital bed
to ask for a kiss, now my hand goes along
as we wash the twilight blue Chevrolet.
the fender, wiping every spot, the suds
in the bucket, my father standing at the
gate,
poor and proud, tall and stout, a wise man,
 
a man troubled by a son gone missing
in the head, drag racing his only car
at night, traveling with hoodlums to leave
the books for street life, naming mentors
the men who pack guns and knives, a son
gone missing from all the biblical truth,
ten talents, prophecies, burning bushes,
dirty cars washed on Saturday morning.
 
He tells me not to miss a spot, to open
the hood when I'm done so he can check
the oil, the vital thing like blood, blood
of kinship, blood spilled in the streets 
of Baltimore, blood oozing from the soul
of a son walking prodigal paths leading
to gutters. Years later I tell him the stories
of what his brother-in-law did to me, and
 
he wipes a tear from the corner of his eye,
wraps it in a white handkerchief for church,