Stick-Shift

I never did learn to drive a stick shift

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I never did learn to drive a stick-shift.
my friends (the real men among them)
give me shit about that.

(Okay, that hasn’t happened since high school,
actually. No one cares whether or not I can drive a stick.)

Shame grows up with the wheat.
It’s hard to sift.

My feminine soul. She’s always been
delicate. Sensitive.

We used to live up on a hill in Cedar Crest.

I drove my dad’s manual down it a couple times —
coasted neutral till I had to shift into gear
at the stop sign across the street from
Triangle Grocery, the hardware store and
Mountain Video (a mom-and-pop VHS
rental shop that put Blockbuster out of business).

The bottom of Sangre de Cristo sloped up.
I always ground the clutch trying not to roll back.
(God, it was the worst with a car riding your bumper).

One time, on tour, Chris Wilson gave me
the keys to his car so that Brandi and I could
drive to the grocery store, and I stalled out
in the middle of the intersection for
an entire round of lights.

Never told him about that.

Brandi — a real man — drove us back.

You know, I’m a sucker for nostalgia.

I don’t even long for the good old days, I just…
well, I like to remember. I miss a lot of
what’s happening in the moment.

I could give you myriad diagnoses for why, but
my god, maybe I’m finally just… a human.

Maybe all our problems belong.

I can’t drive a stick.

What a boring announcement, but
here I am, talking about it. Began
the whole spiel projecting criticisms
that literally do not exist, protecting
tender places, still sensitive, feeling like
maybe I wasn’t as cool as the other kids, or
like I disappointed my dad when I just
couldn’t switch gears fast enough.

Still can’t.

The melodrama.

It’s not anyone’s fault.

The shame grows up with the wheat.

Sometimes, you find a root.
More and more, you just
let it all live and quit trying
to make sense of it.

There’s nothing left to do but forgive.

Everyone.

Everything.